The 

IVhite 

Peacock 





By Olga Petrova 




Class J^_3.S3i 
Coipg[itN°_i^2J.__ 

CDIOOilCHT DEPOSm 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 

A Play in Three Acts 



BY 

OLGA PETROVA 




BOSTON 

THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY 
1922 



Copyright, 1^22, by 
The Four Seas Company 



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All rights are expressly reserved. For rights of public per- 
formance, address the publishers, who are the author's agents. 



The Four Seas Press 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



JAN 24 1923 



FOR 

ALAN DALE 

IN AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE 






^^;''>'^ 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

As originally produced at the 
Comedy Theatre, New York, December 25, 192 1 

Anna Ludmilla Toretzka 

Marietta Doris Carpenter 

Don Miguel de Ribera y Santallos Leon Gordon 

Rafael Roderiguez E. L. Fernandez 

Revette de Ribera y Santallos Madame Petrova 

The Countess Wyanock Letha Walters 

Captain Hubert Lang George C. Thorpe 

Don Cesar de Mendoza y Gonzales Malcolm Fassett 

JosELiTO Charles Brokaw 

Pedro Judson Langill 

ACT I. Sleeping Room in the Home of Revette. 
(Eight weeks elapse between the First and Second Acts.) 

ACT II. Studio in the Home of Revette. 

ACT III. Room in the House of Don Miguel. 
(Evening of the same day.) 

Place: Seville, Spain. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK ii 

Marietta. I couldn't sleep. And if I had I should 
have dreamed. The music reminded me of — 

Anna. Chut. Chut. Chut. Chut. A fool and his noise. 
[She goes to window and draws the casement close.] 
A man that befouls the stillness of the night is cause 
enough to dream anything. 

Marietta. Oh, why do you close the window, Anna? 
I love to hear him sing. [Anna sniffs disdainfully. She 
goes to the bed and during the ensuing scene prepares it 
in readiness for her mistress.] Even though the music 
hurts I love it. I love it. Listen, Anna. Even the night- 
ingale is singing to welcome the eve of St. Antony. 

Anna. St. Antony! Bah. 

Marietta. St. Antony can never mean anything to 
me again. 

Anna. Still worrying out your heart for that good 
for nothing? 

Marietta. He wasn't good for nothing. 

Anna. All men are good for nothing. 

Marietta. Not my Antonio. He couldn't help being 
killed, could he? 

Anna. I'm not saying he could. But he could have 
married you. Good for nothing scamp to get you into 
trouble and then calmly go off and be gored to death 
in the bull ring without leaving you so much as a peseta 
to help with the child when it comes — But there — It's my 
belief you're better off at that. May be he saved you 
some tears. The past is soon forgotten. The present 
stings and stings. Yes. You'll forget. 

Marietta. I can't forget. 

Anna. We all say that. But we do. 



12 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Marietta. Sometimes, Anna, I wonder what it's all 
for. There are so many that might have been taken, 
instead of my Antonio. 

Anna. Yes. Some that are a trouble to themselves 
and to all that know them. 

Marietta. Don Miguel for instance. 

Anna. [Looking around nervously and crossing her- 
self meanwhile. ] Ssssssh ! 

Marietta. Why hush? There's no one to hear. 

Anna. The Seiior Don Miguel has ears that stretch 
from one pole to the other. 

Marietta. All Sevilla hates him, I most of all. 

Anna. And yet you're grieving for a lover that might 
have made you as bad a husband as Don Miguel has made 
the Sefiora, if he'd lived long enough to grow tired of you. 

Marietta. But he didn't live. And so St. Antony's 
feast of lovers is like a sword in my heart tonight — and 
under that sword is my child. 

Anna. Our mistress will see to the wellbeing of your 
child. 

Marietta. If it hadn't been for the Sefiora I should 
have stuck a knife between my ribs the day Don Miguel 
ordered me out of the house. But first I should have 
sharpened it for him. I hate him, Anna. I hate him 
for what he did to me and I hate him for the sorrow he 
has caused the Sefiora. 

Anna. Yes. He's a bad one. I can't see how a man 
that is so rotten in his heart can be a good minister for 
the country. Thirteen years ago when he was Chief 
Justice, he was as popular in Sevilla as a one-horned 
bull to a breeder. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 13 

Marietta. It isn't often that a justice becomes 
Minister of the Interior. 

Anna. No. But Don Miguel made up his mind to it 
long ago and when he sets his mind on anything he gets 
it, even if he has to commit murder to get it. Yes. He's 
a bad one, just rotten through and through. 

Marietta. He's worse than that. 

Anna. I remember him when he was no more than a 
boy. Many and many a time I've seen him ride down 
old women in the street that didn't get out of his road 
soon enough to please him. That's what he's done all 
his life — trampled down any one or anything that has 
stood in his way. Well, it's been peace here in this house 
without him. 

Marietta. Such peace as we never knew for a single 
day before we left the house of Don Miguel. 

Anna. We shall have had seven weeks of it tomorrow. 

Marietta. Yes. Seven weeks. What was that? 

[They start and listen.] 

Anna. It's only the wind blowing the bouganvilleas 
across the window. Now since you're up you may as 
well save my legs a run. Go down to the kitchen and 
make some sandwidhes for the Senora — ^caviare and some 
pate. She may be hungry when she comes in. [As 
Marietta starts for the door.] Bring also a bottle of 
wine. 

Marietta. Is the wine out? Or must I go to the 
cellar ? 

Anna. It's out, little coward. It's on the table under 
the window. I put it there myself an hour ago. 

Marietta. All right. May I take this candle, Anna? 



14 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Anna. Yes. But for the Virgin's sake, don't spill 
the grease all over the carpet. 

Marietta. I'll be careful, Anna. 

[Marietta goes out. Anna take up her sewing 
basket and sews quietly for a few seconds on a 
strip of scarlet silk. Marietta re-enters. She 
has a tray with a large flat loaf on it. She has 
a wine bottle and glasses.]^ 
Anna. You've been quick for once. 
Marietta. I haven't made the sandwiches, Anna. It 
is so quiet downstairs, and the candle casts such big 
shadows. I thought I could make them just as well up 
here. 

Anna. A sleeping room is no place for preparing 
food in. 
Marietta. Oh, Anna, please! 

Anna. Very well. But don't get the crumbs all over 
the floor. 

Marietta. I won't, Anna. 

Anna. [As the voice of the guitar player is heard 
again.] There goes that fool and his guitar again. 

Marietta. Don't you really like the music, Anna? 
I think it's beautiful. Listen to what he says : 

"The poppy is not redder than your mouth. 
The orange scent is not sweeter than your hair. 
The stork is not whiter than your flesh. 
And the tortures of Gehenna are not more bitter 
Than the bitterness of our parting." 

Oh! If it were only my Antonio singing for me — 

Anna. Chut. Chut. Chut. Chut. Music's noise. 
No matter who plays it nor for whom it is played. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 15 

Marietta. Did you ever have anyone play just for 
you, Anna? 

Anna. By the holy virgin, hark to her. One might 
think I were ninety and as ugly as the mother of sin 
herself. 

Marietta. I hope you may live to be ninety, but 
you'll always be a comely woman, Anna. 

Anna. She has wisdom of the sei*pent, this Marietta. 

Marietta. I mean it. Do you know, Anna, I never 
can understand why you don't marry again. 

Anna. Me marry again? Why and whom, pray? 

Marietta. Oh, there are many that would like you 
for a wife. Jose, for instance. I saw him give you an 
extra fish today after the scale had turned. He*s a fine 
man, is Jose, and he'd make you a fine husband. He's 
got wonderful eyes. 

Anna. Wonderful eyes! Does one marry a man's 
eyes? Besides, I've had one husband with wonderful 
eyes; and thanks be to God he's safe in his grave. 

Marietta. Weren't you happy with him, Anna? 

Anna. Oh, I don't know. What is happiness any- 
how? Still, it wasn't till he'd been dead a year that I 
found I could get money for doing for someone else what 
I'd done for him for years for nothing — unless it was 
kicks and bruises. He was a dirty pig, my Alfredo, God 
rest his soul ! 

Marietta. But you might have better luck next time, 
Anna. 

Anna. There isn't going to be any next time, my girl. 
Does a freed bird fly back into it's cage? 

Marietta. It wouldn't be the same cage, Anna. 



i6 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Anna. Why should I want any cage? Why should I 
marry now? I ask you. For a man? — I've had one. 
For a home? I've got one. For money? — I've saved up 
five thousand pesetas since I am with the Sefiora. Shall 
I marry and let some man — invest — it for me? Not I. 
Shall I marry again to be cursed again morning, noon 
and night? The Seiiora is kind to me. She pays me for 
what I do and she thanks me as well. Does a man do 
that? Not at all. He thinks he's doing- you a favour if 
he lets you work yourself to death for him for nothing. 

Marietta. But there's love, Anna. 

Anna. Love! Bah! Tell that to someone that's 
younger than I. Are the sandwiches ready? 

Marietta. Almost. The Senora is late tonight. 
Perhaps she will spend the night with her ladyship. 

Anna. No. The Senora told me that she would be 
home before midnight. She wishes to be up with the 
dawn. 

Marietta. One would think she would grow tired the 
way she works. She has the strength and courage of a 
man, our mistress. 

Anna. Strength and courage of a man? By the 
saints, what's that ? A man that goes to bed with a tooth- 
ache and brings hell to a peaceful household until his 
pain is assuaged. 

Marietta. It may be that men are not very patient 
when they have a toothache. But they do go to war. 
Surely that's brave. 

Anna. How many go of their own courage? Or do 
they go because the law compels them? Are they brave 
enough to resist the law? To go is not courage. It is 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 17 

common sense. They will certainly 'be shot if they resist. 
H they obey they may escape. 

Marietta. But all the same — 

Anna. Besides, a woman would rather follow her man 
anywhere than to be left alone to start at every shadow 
— afraid of every letter carrier that comes — of every 
newspaper that comes out. That's worse than going to 
war. 

Marietta. But think of the maimed; the injured. 

Anna. I am thinking of them. And I'm thinking that 
there is some glory, at any rate, attached to their wounds. 
But a woman — she may be suffering the pangs of child- 
birth; her very entrails may be shrieking to heaven — 
but up to the last moment her husband's dinner must be 
cooked; the floors must be scrubbed as though nothing 
at all were happening. And, think you her husband or 
any one else regards that as courage or glorious ? Not at 
all. They say *Tt is natural for women to suffer. They 
don't feel as men feel." So they take themselves to the 
wineshop until the bustle is over. 

Marietta. [Covering her face with her hands.] 
Oh, Anna. 

Anna. Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. There, I didn't 
mean to hurt you. 

Marietta. How can you speak in such a way? 

Anna. Why not? Does shutting one's eyes remove 
the thing that offends them? And if one's eyes are open 
one must see the clouds as well as see the sun. Don't 
I remember my old son of a sow, coming home as drunk 
as a bullfighter on a iholiday, the very night my little Jesus 
was born. He said he couldn't bear to see suffering. 



i8 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

So he left me alone with that old crone Maria (she was 
so blind she couldn't see to deliver a cat of kittens) until 
four in the morning. When he did come in — he wanted 
his supper. I'm a good CathoHc, I hope, and I don't 
wish any one any harm; but if I could have seen my 
Alfredo once, just once, in childbirth, I'd forgive him 
anything he ever did to me. Strength and courage of a 
man. Tears of Christ ! 

Marietta. Alfredo was a bad one. But all men are 
not like him. Listen, Anna ! There goes that nightingale 
again. One would think so small a throat would burst 
with so much singing. 

Anna. He's like a man, that nightingale. He sings 
fit to burst his windpipe while he woos his mate and then 
— when she is won he'll be as dumb as a fish until the 
mating season comes again and with it another mate. 

Marietta. Anna! 

Anna. Don't I know? Didn't my Alfredo serenade 
me on his guitar until he got me, and then, Holy Virgin — 
what a swine ! What a hog ! What a filthy bag of tricks 
— Not that one should speak ill of the dead. [The clock 
chimes again.] There, if you've finished the sandwiches 
you'd better get to bed. You've got to be up early in 
the morning. Take the tray with you. [As Marietta 
hesitates.] Come now\ 

Marietta. Very well, Anna. Good night. 

Anna. Good night and pleasant dreams. 

[As Marietta starts to go out, a knocking is heard 
on the lower door. Both women start and hold 
their breaths. The knocking becomes louder.] 

Marietta. What's that? 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 19 

Anna. Who would come here at this hour of the night? 

Marietta. Perhaps the Sefiora's friends have come 
back with her and they are knocking. 

Anna. They wouldn't knock so loud. It might be 
Don Miguel. 

Marietta. Don't open the door. 

Anna. [As knocking continues.] Whoever it is, 
means to enter. 

Marietta. But if it should be Don Miguel — 

Anna. [Goes to the casement and calls.] Who's there? 

Voice. It's I. Open the door. 

Marietta. It is Don Miguel. Oh, Anna, don't open 
the door. 

Anna. He'll break it down if I don't. I'll go down 
and tell the Senor that the Senora is not at home. Per- 
haps then he'll go away. 

Voice. Come, hurry. Hurry! Do you want broken 
heads as well as a broken door ? 

Marietta. Mother of God have mercy on us. 

Anna. Just a moment, Senor. I was asleep and 
didn't know that it was the Senor. May God's lightning 
blind him! Just a moment, Senor, I'm coming. 

Marietta. Oh, Anna, I'm afraid. 

Anna. Go to your room. The Senor won't go up 
there anyhow. 

Voice. Are you going to open this door? 

Anna. Coming, Senor, coming. 

[They both exit. The nightingale, not at all con- 
cerned with the tragedies of human lives, con- 
tinues to sing. And the moon continues to shine.] 



20 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Miguel. [Outside.] Are you all deaf in this house? 

Anna. A thousand pardons, Senor. 

Miguel. Where's your mistress? 

Anna. The Senora is out. 

Miguel. I'll go up and wait. 

Anna. But, Senor. 

[Miguel enters followed by Anna. He is tall, 
swarthy, and handsome. He is haughty of bear- 
ing but at the same time has the air of a bon 
viveur. He looks around the room with a sneer 
of amusement at the canopied bed.] 

Miguel. Where do you say your mistress is? 

Anna. The Seiiora has gone with the Countess 
Wyanock. She may spend the night at her house. 

Miguel. I'll wait till she returns. Send and tell her 
that I am here. 

Anna. Senor — 

Miguel. Wihat is it? Are you transfixed? Have you 
spoken so long a foreign tongue that you have forgotten 
your own. 

Anna. My orders from the Senora were that I was 
not to leave the house until she returned. 

Miguel. Do as I tell you. 

[As Miguel speaks the door opens and Rafael 
RoDERiGUEz enters. He is rather short and thick 
set. His hair grows low on his forehead, which 
is ornamented by a pair of bushy eyebrows. The 
eyes below are black and piercing. His lips are 
heavy and sensual. He has a habit of running his 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 21 

fingers through his hair. His fingers are clumsy 
with broad spatulated tips. He is dressed 
showily and is very much impressed with his 
own personal appearance.] 

Rafael. I found the lower door open so I took the 
hberty of coming up. 

Anna. You cannot come in liere, Senor. It is the 
Senora's sleeping room. 

Rafael. The Sefior here will vouch for me. 

Miguel. Go where you were told. I will make tlhe 
necessary apologies to the Seiiora. [Anna exits.] Have- 
n't you more sense than to come here? 

Rafael. You told me to report before you left for 
Madrid. I went to the Calle de San Pedro and they 
told me you had come here. Where else was I to go? 

Miguel. Taking the chances you do it's a miracle 
you've kept your neck out of the garrotte so long. One 
of these days your star will desert you. 

Rafael I'm not nervous about my neck. Why should 
you be? 

Miguel. What did you find? 

Rafael. Nothing. 

Miguel. Nothing? 

Rafael. Not a cursed thing. You're afraid of 
shadows. 

Miguel. There is no sudh thing as a shadow without 
an object to cast it. 

Rafael. Why should he turn up now? 

Miguel. With the nomination falling tomorrow his 
reappearance would be sardonically timely. [Rafael 



22 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

laughs.] Your manners don't seem to serve you as well 
as usual. 

Rafael. My manners are all right. You needn't be 
concerned about them. I understand you and you under- 
stand me without a lot of bowing and scraping. One 
word from you and off goes my napper. One word from 
nie and off goes yours. Manners ! Bali ! They make 
me sick. 

Miguel. You've been drinking again. 

Rafael. What if I have? 

Miguel. With the shadow of a steel collar before 
your eyes you can still afford to be careless? 

Rafael. While the collar is only a shadow why 
shouldn't I amuse myself? And when the shadow be- 
comes a reality what could be more consoling than a 
bottle of wine? 

Miguel. You fool. There's a car turning into the 
drive. Go at once. 

Rafael. At your service, Senor. [Goes toward the 
door.] 

Miguel. No! By the balcony. 

Rafael. By the balcony. How romantic. [Goes to 
window.] I shall hear from you at Madrid? 

Miguel. Within a week. 

Rafael. Good-night. 

Miguel. Good-night. Good-night. 

[Rafael disappears over the balcony. Miguel 
takes out a cigar and lights it. There is a short 
pause and the door opens. Revette enters, 
followed by Marion, Countess of Wyanock 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 23 

and Hubert Lang. Revette is tall, slim, an 
aristocrat. She has a way of looking straight 
ahead of her as though she glimses things beyond 
the vision of ordinary people. Marion is a chic 
American. She is taller than Revette, blonde 
and handsome. She is voluptuous in a discreetly 
corsetted way. Hubert Lang is an Englishman, 
immaculately turned out.] 

Revette. [As she enters.] Can you see, Marion? 
The staircase is awfully dark. 

Marion. We won't stay more than a few minutes. 
I know you are dying to get to bed. 

Revette. No. Not if you'll stay and talk to me. 
Or better still let me talk to you. Be careful of that 
archway, Hubert. 

Hubert. [As he bends to enter the low door.] Thanks. 
I will. 

Miguel. [Coming down from balcony.] Good 
evening. Countess. Captain Lang. 

Hubert. Good evening. Sir. 

Marion. Well, this is a surprise. I thought you were 
at Madrid. 

Miguel. No. I leave tonight [To Revette.] and I 
didn't want to go w^ithout coming to say goodbye. 

Revette. Fm sorry that I was not here when you came. 

Miguel. That you should have been in such pleasant 
company compensates me for a much greater inconven- 
ience than waiting. You are looking very beautiful 
tonight, Countess. 

Marion. Thank you. 



24 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Miguel. And your distinguished husband? I hope 
he is better? 

Marion. Yes, Charles is much better, thanks. He has 
had quite a siege but he expects to be back from England 
on Thursday. He'll probably put in an appearance at 
the Embassy next week. 

Miguel. Fm delighted to hear it. I see Spain still 
has its lure for you, Captain Lang. 

Hubert. Oh, rather! I shall probably become a 
fixture in time. I find Spain very peaceful. 

Miguel. Then that siren on your car must be a relic 
of your barbarous past. 

Hubert. On the contrary. It's quite new. A little 
invention of my own. You see the drivers here in Seville 
don't take the least notice of ordinary motor horns so I 
had to think up something. Don't you find it effective? 

Miguel. Oh, most. Now I do hope you won't think 
I'm rude but I have only a half hour to catch my train 
and I should like a few words with my wife. 

Marion. Oh, of course. Of course. We must be 
running along anyhow. 

Revette. Oh, must you go? 

Marion. I must. I have a train myself at nine in 
the morning and you know what a glutton I am for sleep. 

Revette. Well, don't stay away too long. You know 
how I always miss you. 

Marion. I won't. And I'll let you know the minute 
I get back. 

Revette. Please do. Good-night, dear. 

Marion. Good-night, Don Miguel. 

Miguel. Good-night, Countess. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 25 

Marion. I salute the new minister of the interior. 

Miguel. The new minister of the interior salutes you. 
Good-night, Captain Lang. 

Hubert. Good-night, Sir. 

Revette. Good-night, Hubert. Next Thursday then? 

Hubert. Righto ! I've got it down in my little book. 

[They go out.] 

Miguel. The Countess rather likes Captain Lang? 
[Revette strokes idly the feathers of a huge pea- 
cock-feather fan.] 

Revette. Why not? He's quite charming. 

Miguel. It's quite possible that the situation may 
become somewhat embarrassing for everybody concerned 
when Lord Wyanock returns. 

Revette. [Still stroking the fan and without looking 
up. ] Why have you come here at this hour of the night ? 

Miguel. Is it ever too late for a husband to pay his 
wife the compliment of calling on her? 

Revette. [ With a half shrug. ] Why have you come ? 

Miguel. First, because I have no intention that any 
one shall suppose that your leaving my house was any- 
thing more than an artist's fad, for which you have my 
sympathy and approval. Is that clear? 

Revette. Quite clear. 

Miguel. And, secondly, because I wish to assure my- 
self that you are conducting yourself with discretion. 

Revette. Is that all? 

Miguel. No. I also wish to remind you that on my 
return from Madrid I shall expect you to have entirely 
recovered from this attack of temperament. I have 
humoured your whims until now because — ^well, because 



26 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

it has pleased me to humour them. And because I did 
not wish to draw attention to my domestic affairs until 
after my nomination. Do you understand what I mean? 

Revette. I think I do. I think you mean that on 
your return for Madrid you expect me to come back 
to you. 

Miguel. Exactly. I expect my wife to be my wife. 
And by the way, my dear, you're looking very charming 
tonight. I begin to be sorry that my train goes so soon. 

[Revette turns her back with a shudder at the 
leer in his eyes. He follows her to the window 
and attempts to take her in his arms. Very, 
quietly she disengages herself.] 

Revette. I don't want to quarrel with you but I do 
want you to understand that you must never try to touch 
me again. That is all over. 

Miguel. What a naive child it is. Or perhaps you 
have already found someone to console you for my sins. 

Revette. If you're trying to make me angry by hitting 
in the dark you're wasting time. All I ask of you is that 
you will please leave me alone. I had thought that I'd 
found sanctuary here. 

Miguel. Sanctuary! You talk like a cloistered nun 
and you must forgive me if I am unable to regard you as 
nunlike. I shall expect you at my house when I return. 

Revette. I shall not be there. 

Miguel. You refuse to obey me? 

Revette. Please don't be melodramatic. Of course — 
after all, you know, it's you that are responsible for this 
state of affairs, 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 27 

Miguel. Are you going to bore me with another 
recital of your wrongs? Haven't I had enough of your 
jealous tirades? 

Revette. Jealous tirades? I don't think jealousy is 
the word. Esthetics, perhaps. 

Miguel. Esthetics ! Well, at any rate I'm glad to be 
spared another scene. 

Revette. Really, you're very unjust. The only scene 
I ever made was on the occasion of your first — what 
shall we say ? disaffection ? That time I admit I did make 
something of an exhibition of myself. I cried. I cried 
all through the night. I cried till the dawn came in. 
Do you know, that night I didn't think I could go on 
living — but I did. I lived to wonder whether it was really 
I that could suffer like that. Mercifully emotion is like 
elastic: you can stretch it just so far and just so often- 
then its capacity for resiliency goes. Mine went that 
night. 

Miguel. Indeed ? 

Revette. Since then the only horror I've experienced 
has been aesthetic horror. You know how sensitive I've 
always been to perfume. Since then I've simply objected 
to your coming to me with the perfumes of all those other 
v/omen still in your hair. 

Miguel. Disgusting ! 

Revette. Yes, some of them were. But why let us 
go over all that again? That's past and done with. That 
road's been trodden and now the caravans move on ; mine 
to the North. Yours, to Madrid. Oh, and speaking of 
Madrid, you have none too much time for your train. 

Miguel. You seem to be extraordinarily solicitous 



28 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

about my train. However, as you say, it is almost due. 
I hope that you will be discreet in your behavior during 
my absence. You may continue to amuse yourself with 
your painting and with the delusion that you have defied 
me to advantage, but I shall expect to find you at the 
Calle de San Pedro on my return. That I insist upon. 
Do you hear me? 

Revette. Yes, I hear. 

Miguel. And one thing more. I notice that you stil! 
have that little prostitute Marietta with you. Get rid 
of her. I don't want to find her here when I get back. 
1 don't intend to have gossip either through her or through 
my wife's neurotic ideas of saving fallen angels from 
the streets where they belong. If you misunderstood my 
orders seven weeks ago see to it that you don't misun- 
derstand them now. Good-night. 

Revette. Do you know I think you lack a sense of 
humour? 

Miguel. Indeed? 

Revette. Yes. Particularly when you apply the term 
prostitute to any woman. Oh, and by the way how is 
Dona Paula? Well, I hope. 

Miguel. Is that intended as an insult? 

Revette. Wihy? If I don't accept the term prostitute 
as applied to Marietta as an insult, why should you accept 
it for Dona Paula, or Dona Claudia, or a legion others? 

Miguel. Do you compare a kitchen wench with 
Dona Paula? 

Revette. Not at all. Dona Paula is a business woman. 
She exacts a fee in return for her services. Marietta 
asked only love. And she got tears. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 29 

Miguel. You're ridiculous. However, I've told you 
what I want and what I expect. See that you do it. 

[Miguel takes his hat and stick and goes toward 
door. Revette stands facing the fire, her hack 
to him. She speaks without turning.^ 

Revette. Oh ! Be careful of that staircase. It's very 
dark and you may fall. 

[Miguel exits. Revette stands for a moment. 
Then with a slight shrug of the shoulders and 
a little hitter laugh, she goes toward the window. 
Anna enter s.] 

Anna. Thanks to the Saints. The Senor has gone. 
Is my Senora cold? 

Revette. Not in my body. 

Anna. May the devil take the Senor Don Miguel. 
May I take your things, Seiiora? 

Revette. [Handing fan to Anna and coming down 
to divan.] Thank you. Oh, Anna, who was that man 
that I saw going out of the gates as we drove in? 

Anna. I don't know, Senora. He had some business 
with the Senor. 

Revette. Business. Here ? Strange ! What a hor- 
rible face. [She sits on the divan and commences to draw 
the ear rings from her ears.] Did Joselito come for the 
frame ? 

Anna. Yes, Senora. But it wasn't quite ready. He 
said he would come again in the morning. 

Revette. Thank heaven that picture's out of the way 
at last. 



30 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Anna. The Senora doesn't sound as though she were 
pleased with it. 

Revette. Pleased with it? I'm not pleased with it. 

Anna. Oh, I think it is a beautiful picture. But the 
Sefiora is always dissatisfied with her work; although 
people that are supposed to know praise it and the col- 
lectors pay big money for it. 

Revette. What has that to do with it? You see, 
Anna, when one creates something the principal thing is 
to get as near one's vision as one can, money or no 
money. Now if I could be satisfied once, just once, with 
something that I had done — that would be a wonderful 
sensation. 

Anna. The Seiiora is too hard to please. 

Revette. Well, I suppose that's the penalty of seeing 
visions and dreaming dreams. One always feels how 
great the vision was and how paltry the realization. [She 
rises abruptly and turns toward the window.] What a 
wonderful night ! I used to read about the blue moon- 
light of Spain. I never believed that it could be so blue. 
[She opens wide the casement and stands silhouetted 
against the blue sky. ] Can you smell the orange flowers ? 

Anna. I wouldn't keep the casement open, Sefiora. 

Revette. What ! Shut out such a night ! 

Anna. There are many bats flying tonight. One 
might fly in. 

Revette. Well. And supposing one does? 

Anna. It is unlucky for a bat to fly into a house. 

Revette. [Laughing.] For the bat or for the house? 

Anna. It's all very well, Seiiora. But the very night 
my husband died, a bat flew through the open doorway. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 31 

Revette. O Anna ! 

Anna. [Between beating the pillows and folding the 
coverlet.] Yes, Seiiora. It was a dark night without any 
stars. I had been sitting for a long time watching my 
Alfredo as he slept. His face was puffed and bloated 
with fever. He was snoring like a whole litter of pigs 
with his mouth wide open— God! if men only knew how 
they look when they sleep. 

Revette. I do thank God IVe never seen myself 
asleep. 

Anna. Well, Seiiora, I was just about to put out my 
hand to give him his last dose of medicine for the night, 
thinking that maybe he'd take a turn for the better and 
hang on for years and years when a bat flew right in 
front of my face. I said to myself, "Who am I that I 
should resist an allwise providence?" I drew back my 
hand.— The next night I was a widow. [Crossing herself 
piously.] It was meant to be. 

Revette. Oh ! Anna ! Anna ! And I thought I'd cured 
you of superstition. Listen ! Do you hear that nightin- 
gale singing? Does that mean something too? 

Anna. My Senora always laughs at me. 

Revette. But, Anna. Isn't it wonderful that I can 
still laugh at something? But there, I won't laugh at 
you any more, I promise. I love you too well. 

Anna. Will my Senora have something to eat? 
Marietta has made sandwiches of caviare and she has 
brought up some wine. 

Revette. Is the wine white or red? 

Anna. Red wine of Rioja. Good Spanish wine. 



32 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. Red wine always makes me think of blood ; 
the blood of all the heroes and of all the passionate lovers 
that ever lived. And tonight's the night of lovers, isn't it? 

Anna. Yes, Seiiora. The feast of St. Anthony falls 
tomorrow. 

Revette. And tonight through all Spain prayers are 
travelling up that love may come to all lonely hearts. 
May any gods there be send peace to all loneliness. 

Anna. I say Amen to that, Sefiora! I have prayed 
to the blessed St. Anthony to send the Seiiora a lover. 
Oh ! it may be a sin but that is what I have prayed this 
very night. 

Revette. I appreciate your thought for me. But if 
it's just as convenient for St. Antony I hope he'll wait 
now till tomorrow. 

Anna. The Seiiora will have her little joke. 

Revette. No, I grant you this is a night for romance ; 
a night when with the moon and with the orange flowers 
for company, the pressure of strong arms might be very 
welcome. 

[Anna having completed the unfastening of her 
dress, Revette turns suddenly and goes into 
dressing room. Anna brings small tabouret to 
the chair and places on it the tray of sandwiches 
and wine. She lights a candle shaded with plum 
colored silk and places that on the bed table. 
A few seconds elapse and Revette re-enters. 
She is attired in a sleeping robe of white silk 
crepe. Over it is a negligee of silver with a very 
long train. A cap of silver lace is on her head. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 33 

She goes to the casement and stands for a few 
seconds more looking out into the night. Anna 
shakes her head ruefully. The clock is heard to 
chime. The nightingale gurgles a few throbbing 
notes.] 

Anna. Will the Senora drink her wine now? 

Revette. [Turning from window.] I'd forgotten 
there were such things as food and wine. 

Anna. What did the Senora see in the moonlight? 

Revette. Just moonlight. And the long shadows of 
the cypress trees on the grass. I tried to see past them. 
I tried to see deep into the future, but I couldn't and 
perhaps after all it's just as well. [Taking glass from 
Anna and holding the wine against the light.] Well, 
here's to St. Antony! Patron saint of lonely people. 

Anna, [Fervently.] Amen. 

Revette. You know, Anna, for a man hater you're 
the most diligent matchmaker I've ever encountered. 

Anna. I don't hate men, Sefiora. God made them 
and v/ho am I to question the handiwork of God. I don't 
like husbands, that's all. 

Revette. And yet they do say that a second marriage 
is a triumph of hope over experience. 

Anna. Anyone that has been married knows there 
is no hope. 

Revette. You're a true disciple of Voltaire. 

Anna. Voltaire, Senora? 

Revette. He was the gentleman that said: *Tf you're 
married and happy, there's nothing like it. And if you're 
married and unhappy — " 



34 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Anna. He was right, that Seiior Voltaire. There is 
nothing Uke it. 

Revette. That makes me sure then of always keeping 
you with me. 

Anna. The Senora knows I would never leave her 
willingly. 

Revette. Dear Anna. Salt of the earth. [She puts 
out her hand. Anna hends and kisses it.] And now it's 
time for bed. It was selfish of me to have kept you up 
so long. 

Anna. Will the Senora take off her negligee? 

Revette. No, I'm going to read. You must call me 
at seven in the morning, Anna. I've a long day's work 
to put in tomorrow. 

Anna. Yes, Senora. 

Revette. Will you please pass me that little red book 
on the table. 

Anna. Is this it, Seiiora? 

Revette. Thank you. The candles please. Good 
night, Anna. 

Anna. May the blessed virgin watch over and protect 
you. Good-night, Senora. 

[Anna goes out. Revette strikes a match and with 
it lights a cigarette. She watches the tiny flamie 
until it hums close to her fingers. With a sigh 
she lets it fall. She opens the hook and turns 
the pages idly. The song of the nightingale is 
very sad, the wailing of the guitar player is 
sadder still. She rests her head upon her hands, 
her elhows on her knees. Again she tries to read. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 35 

Then she takes the hook in one hand, the candle 
in the other, and goes toward the hook stand. 
She kneels hefore it, examining one hy one the 
volumes. A shadow falls across the floor. A 
figure is seen at the casement. Even in the soft 
gloom one senses the power and purpose of this 
man's personality. He watches the kneeling 
figure. The train of her gown spreads itself 
like a great fan of silver across the patch of 
moonlight. She selects two of the hooks from 
the stand and rises to her feet. As she turns 
she catches sight of Cesar. The light from her 
candle lights up his olive face. She shows no 
alarm, only a great wonder. ] 

Cesar. Not a sound unless you want me to use this 
gun. 

Revette. If you do use it I hope that you'll shoot 
straight. Life isn't so entertaining for me at the moment 
that I want to go on disfigured into the bargain. 

Cesar. You're very cool. 

Revette. The evening is chilly, especially so for June. 

Cesar. You will pardon my apparent discourtesy. If 
I were sure that you wouldn't raise the rest of the house, 
I'd help you with your burden. 

[Indicates hooks and candle stick.] 

Revette. I appreciate your thought fulness but I beg 
you not to inconvenience yourself. 

Cesar. Permit me. [He takes hooks and candle from 
her and goes toward the bed tahle. As he turns his back 



36 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

to put them down Revette makes a dart to the door.] 
Come away from that door! [Revette with a slight 
shrug obeys.] I repeat, you are very cool for a woman. 

Revette. Why particularly for a woman? What do 
you expect a woman to do ? Scream and be shot ? That 
would be somewhat weak logic under the circumstances, 
wouldn't it? 

Cesar. One does not look for logic in addition to the 
many other charms of your sex, Seiiora. 

Revette. I'm afraid your knowledge of my sex has 
been gained by hearsay. Or possibly from the reading of 
fanciful conceits, written by your own. 

Cesar. I must confess that my personal knowledge 
of women has been slight. 

Revette. That excuses your ignorance of us. 
Well, you may set your mind at rest. I shall not scream ; 
principally for the reason that I should gain nothing by 
screaming. You see, I have only an old woman in the 
house, and a young girl that expects very soon to be a 
mother. One would be foolish to suppose that you might 
take that into consideration. 

Cesar. I beg you to believe that fate, not lack of 
chivalry, forces me to profit by your disadvantage. 

Revette. In that case — my jewels are on that table. 

Cesar. Strange as it may seem, Senora, I am not 
interested in your jewels. 

Revette. No ? 

Cesar. No. 

Revette. Do you know, I'm rather disappointed. 
I've been paying insurance on them for years. I have 
no money in the house. [As Cesar makes no move.] 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 37 

Oh! You don't mean to say that you have come for 
one of my yet unsold masterpieces. 

Cesar. Masterpieces ? 

Revette. Pictures. Fm an artist. At least I hope 
I am. Didn't you know? 

Cesar. No, I didn't know. 

Revette. Oh ! Then I cannot imagine anything else 
I possess that could be a reason for your call. 

Cesar. Your possessions are not the reason for my 
call, Senora. 

Revette. Then you're not a bandit? 

Cesar. Not in that sense, no. 

Revette. Then what are you? 

Cesar. It's a wise man that knows what he is. 

Revette. That's very true. But epigrams won't get 
us far this time of night. Will you — 

Cesar. I have no desire to get any farther than this. 

Revette. My house is flattered. But it is late and 
I do not feel equal to entertaining. 

Cesab. I'm sorry that you are tired. 

Revette. I did not say that I was tired. I said that 
it was late. 

Cesar. [As Revette crosses to the other side of the 
room.] Then I don't feel quite so guilty. 

Revette. If you've merely come here on a sort of 
St. Antony's Eve prank just to disturb my night's rest, 
I can assure you you have succeeded admirably. I shall 
not sleep tonight. Now won't you please be so kind as 
to go? 

Cesar. That's impossible, Senora. I am obliged to 
demand the hospitality of this room for the remainder of 



38 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

the night. [As Revette turns to door of dressing room.] 
Stay where you are. 

Revette. I was merely going to that room since you 
insist upon this one. 

Cesar. Do not trouble, Senora. I prefer that we both 
stay here. 

Revette. But if you don't want my jewels, what do 
you want here? 

Cesar. Should you be disturbed by even later callers 
than I, I should be more certain of your discretion. 

Revette. I have already assured you of that. 

Cesar. Still I propose to stay where I am. 

Revette. [Indicating divan.] Very well, if we are 
to spend the night without sleep there is no reason why 
we should spend it standing into the bargain. [She sits.] 

Cesar. The Senora honors me too much. And yet — 
it would be more flattering if you were to show a little 
emotion, a little fear. 

Revette. Fear! Of what? Of death? Oh! there 
are so many things worse than death. Life, for example. 
No, since I must die sometime, I have accustomed myself 
to the idea of dying, when the time comes, instead of 
making any useless fuss. H that time has come, so be it. 
All I ask is that if you have anything to do with it you 
make as clean a job as possible. 

Cesar. You're a very unusual person. 

Revette. Do you think so? 

Cesar. You're very different from what I expected 
you to be when I saw you at the Inn of the Black Bull? 

Revette. When was that? 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 39 

Cesar. Tonight. I've been watching you all the 
evening. When you left I followed you here. 

Revette. Such gallantry might amuse some women, 
Sefior. It leaves me quite unmoved. 

Cesar. At any rate you know now why I came. 
Revette. And I do you the compliment of not taking 
you seriously. 

Cesar. I might remind you that your sense of humor 
is not general. I never was more serious in my life. 
I came as I say because I wanted to know you. I wanted 
also to know the wife of the ex-Chief-Justice of Sevilla, 
the prospective Minister of the Interior. 

Revette. What has Don Miguel to do with it. 
Cesar. Don Miguel— just a fancy, Seiiora. You are 
very beautiful, Seiiora. [He takes both her hands, mak- 
ing it impossible for her to move. ] 
Revette. How dare you touch me ! 
Cesar. I thought you were beautiful at the Inn, but 
vou are much more beautiful here in the moonlight. 
Revette. Let go my hands. 

Cesar. Do you hear that nightingale? Do you smell 

the orange flowers? I was standing in the shadow of 

your balcony when I heard you say that with them for 

company you would welcome the pressure of strong arms. 

Revette. Let me go. 

Cesar. Your eyes are like stars under the white veil 

of a cloud. You are proud and white like the silver 

peacock in the garden of Marie Louise. And yet you 

could be tender if you would. 

Revette. Let me go. 

Cesar. Look at me. Look at me. You are like a 



40 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

lioness in the jungle. You look at me and you're not 
afraid. Your body is like the rising moon. Your mouth 
is redder than blood. Kiss me. 

Revette. Let me go. 

Cesar. If you will say to me, "If I were a lioness 
in the jungle, free of all the subterfuges of men and 
women, still I would say *No !' " then I will let you go. 
You do not say it. 

Revette. Even if I were a lioness in the jungle I 
would not be taken against my will. I would use my 
teeth and my claws. 

Cesar. You would not use them. You would not use 
them. 

Revette. I would not be taken against my will. 

Cesar. I would make my will your will. 

Revette. Not by attacking me in my den armed. 

Cesar. Kiss me of your own free will and I'll let you 

go- 

Revette. How can I use my free will while you hold 
me. 

Cesar. [Letting go his hold of her and rising to his 
feet from the divan.] Kiss me. 

Revette. [Revette is evidently amazed. She turns 
her head and looks up into his eyes. In her eyes there 
is a dawning of desire. She lifts her face until it is very 
near to Cesar. Then very quietly she says.] No. 

Cesar. I could break your body like a reed. 

Revette. Still I should not have kissed you. 

Cesar. [Turns away abruptly for a second.] Then 
tell me this. Is it because of circumstances, conventions, 
or because you do not — like — me ? 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 41 

Revette. Even supposing that there were no such 
thing as convention, even supposing that I did— Hke— you, 
do you think that I should take for a lover, a man that 
breaks into my house at midnight and orders me at the 
point of a gun? 

Cesar. I love you. 

Revette. Love! Love is scarcely born of such a situ- 
ation nor with quite such a suddenness. 

Cesar. Who shall say how love is born? When the 
stars shall look down on your dust and mine, what shall 
time have mattered? What is a day, a year, in the span 
of eternity? I love you, Senora. I shall prove it. [He 
takes his gun from his belt and holds it out to her. ] With 
this gun I give you my liberty, perhaps my life. You 
may shoot me for a bandit. The law will uphold you. 
You may call your women and send them for the Guardia 
Civil, or better still you can go to the casement and 
call. There are those waiting outside that would be only 
too glad to relieve you of all responsibility by putting a 
bullet through me on sight. 

Revette. Who are you? What kind of a man are 
you? Why are you being hunted? 

Cesar. Let us say that I have had certain differences 
with certain gentlemen who are of the opinion that my 
life is forfeit to their whims. 

Revette. And yet you put that life in my hands ? 

Cesar. Not as an apology, Senora, but as evidence 
of my love. 

Revette. [Walks deliberately over to him. . They 
stand looking into one another's eyes. Then very quietly 



42 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

she indicates the chair facing the fireplace.] You will 
find that chair comfortable till dawn. [She stands for a 
moment looking out into the moonlit night. Then she 
turns.] Now perhaps you won't think me rude if I try 
to rest? I have work to do tomorrow. 

[She goes over to bed and stretches herself upon it.] 

Cesar. If ever you need this poor life of mine, it is 
yours to keep or to throw away. 

[Revette holds out her hand. Cesar goes over to 
the bed. He bends his head and kisses it. Then 
he goes back to his chair and taking a match, he 
prepares to light a cigarette. There is a stir 
outside the door. Revette motions him to sit 
down so that he may be hidden by the tall back 
of the chair. The door opens and Anna enters.] 

Anna. Pardon, Seiiora, but I thought I heard voices ; 
that someone was here; perhaps the Senor Don Miguel 
had come back ? 

Revette. Don Miguel is on the way to Madrid. 

Anna. Pardon, Seiiora. But I was afraid. May the 
blessed St. Antony watch over and protect you. Good- 
night, Senora. 

Revette. Good-night, Anna. Don't forget to call me 
at seven. 

Anna. I won't forget. Good-night, Senora. 

Revette. Good-night, Anna. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 43 

[Anna goes out. The nightingales pierce the 
stillness with a new chorus of song. The guitar 
player wails again his love to the moon. 
Revette bends her head and blows out the tiny 
flame of the candle. The room is peopled with 
shadows. The air is heavy with perfume.] 

Revette. You may smoke now, Seiior. 

[The glow from a match stabs the gloom as the 
curtain falls.] 



ACT II 



ACT II. 

It is the studio in the house of Revette seven weeks later. 
The walls are a soft sand color that catches and 
throws back the sunlight. Set in the wall at the right 
there is a niche holding a Virgin and Child, fashioned 
of blue plaster. Just above the niche there is a long, 
arched window; shaded by curtains of a deeper shade 
of blue silk. On the ledge under the window there is 
an orange colored bowl, containing a sheaf of paint- 
brushes. There is a second bowl of peacock hue 
containing a bunch of scarlet geraniums. A smock 
of scarlet cotton hangs on a nail by the window. 

There is a tall easel on a line with this window. On the 
easel there is a huge canvas, covered with a linen 
cloth. There are many other smaller canvases, 
turned with their faces to the wall. Below the win- 
dow there is a divan. It is heaped with cushions of 
purple, blue and green. At the back of the divan 
there is a small table on which stand a box of paints, 
another jar of brushes and other implements of a 
painte/s craft. 

At the back of this room there are two wide French doors. 
To the left there is a staircase leading to the change 
room, Revette's private apartments of the house. 
The handrail of this staircase is hung with strips of 
brilliantly hued brocades, one blue, the other scarlet. 
47 



48 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

To the left of the staircase there is a big fireplace. Near 
the fireplace is a table bearing two candlesticks of 
twisted blue Bohemian glass. The candles are also 
blue. 

Below the fireplace there is a chair curiously carved. A 
strip of crimson silk is thrown across its back. On 
a line with the chair there is another window through 
which the sun is streaming. 

At the rise of the curtain Anna is discovered putting 
some red roses into a vase. Marietta enters and 
starts to ascend the staircase. She seems nervous 
and excited. 

Anna. Where are you going, Marietta? 

Marietta. I want to speak with the Senora Anna. 

Anna. The Seiiora is busy writing letters and you 
know she doesn't Hke to be disturbed. 

Marietta. But, Anna, it's most important. 

Anna. It's much more important that you should go 
down to the market. I need that macaroni for dinner. 

Marietta. Very well, Anna. [She starts to go out 
as Revette enters down the stairs.] 

Revette. Good morning. Marietta. I suppose it's 
afternoon though. Isn't it? My watch has stopped and 
I've been so busy I haven't had time to come and look 
at the clock. 

Marietta. It's just four, Senora. 

[Marietta pauses; looks back at Anna as though 
making up her mind whether she shall speak 
before her or not.] 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 49 

Revette. Why ! What's the matter, Marietta ? Aren't 
you well? 

Marietta. I'm quite well, thank you, Senora. 

Revette. Then it's the baby. There's something 
wrong with him. Anna must give him something. Anna 
knows all about babies. 

Marietta. The nino is well, Senora. He's as strong 
as a young bull at the corrida of Corpus Cristi. 

Revette. I haven't seen him for two whole days. He 
must have grown quite a lot in that time. Eh, Marietta? 

Marietta. He has grown — really he has, Senora ; and 
today he laughed. Before, he has only smiled. His laugh 
was so gay. It almost made me cry. 

Revette. What sort of logic's that, that makes a 
happy mother cry when her son laughs. You are happy, 
aren't you, Marietta? 

Marietta. It is just because I am so happy that the 
tears came to my eyes. I couldn't help thinking what 
might have happened to the little one and to me if it 
hadn't been for the Sefiora. 

Revette. There now, you're not going to cry again? 

Marietta. If I could only repay the Sefiora somehow? 

Revette. There is nothing to repay. If I have done 
anything at all I have done it to please myself. There's 
nothing very noble about pleasing one's self. 

Marietta. The Sefiora is to me like my saint. 

Revette. I'd rather be something more tangible. 
Your friend, Marietta. There now. I want you to go 
for me to the Calle de San Sebastien. If Don Isidor 
should be in, tell him that I should be glad if he will 
come and pose this afternoon. 



50 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Marietta. Yes, Seiiora. [She hesitates again.] 

Revette. What is it, Marietta? 

Marietta. May I have a few words with the Seiiora 
before I go ? 

Revette. You may have as many as you like when 
you get back. 

Marietta. Yes, Sefiora. 

[Marietta goes out and Revette turns to ascend 
the staircase.] 

Anna. Oh, I forgot to tell the Seiiora that a servant 
came a few minutes ago from her ladyship. He said her 
ladyship would call at four if it would be convenient. 

Revette. And I was going to paint. Still I'm glad 
her ladyship is back. Anna, you must make for her 
ladyship some of those little honey cakes that she likes 
so well. 

Anna. Doesn't the Senora remember the last time her 
ladyship was here she said she wouldn't eat any cakes 
or sweet things until she had lost at least six pounds. 

Revette. Yes, I remember. But her ladyship will 
forget when she sees your cakes. [As there is a knocking 
at the door.] There's someone now. 

[Revette goes to upper room. Anna goes out 
through main door and returns with Marion and 
Hubert Lang.] 

Anna. Will her ladyship be seated; also the Serior. 
I will tell the Seiiora that you are here. 

[Anna goes to upper room.] 
Hubert. Well, if I were you I'd let well enough alone. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 51 

Marion. That's just it. It isn't well enough. It isn't 
well at all. It's bad ; bad enough for anything. 

Hubert. She has the courage of her convictions at 
any rate. 

Marion. People with convictions are the most irritat- 
ing of the entire species. 

Hubert. That is when their convictions don't happen 
to be the same as yours. 

Marion. You can't raise an argument with me today. 
It's too hot. 

Hubert. I don't see that she's done anything particu- 
larly extraordinary. 

Marion. I don't know what you'd call extraordinary 
then. The wife of the prospective Minister walks calmly 
out of her husband's house with a servant that's going 
to have an illegitimate baby, takes up her residence in 
an improvised studio miles from anywhere, and signs her 
clieques in her maiden name. 

Hubert. She painted and signed cheques long before 
she married de Ribera, didn't she? 

Marion. That has nothing to do with it. She must 
have known that as the wife of a Spanish hidalgo she 
wouldn't have the same freedom as an unattached artist. 
Oh, dear! How I shall miss her little dinners at the 
Calle de San Pedro. Revette had the only decent chef 
in Sevilla. This Spanish cooking — ugh — 

Hubert. Well, I suppose losing one's friend and a 
cook at the same stroke is something of a cataclysm. 
But can't she give her little dinners here? 



52 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Marion. You know perfectly well she can't. What 
do you think people are going to say? They'll cut her 
as sure as fate. 

Hubert. Looks to me as though she's done the 
cutting. I don't wonder she left him. He's an awful 
person. 

Marion. Oh, there's no doubt he's behaved disgrace- 
fully. But there — all husbands behave disgracefully. 
She should have expected it. 

Hubert. Being a callow bachelor I don't take that 
assertion seriously. 

Marion. You talk beautifully, Hubert. But if you 
were married you'd be just as impossible as any other 
husband. 

Hubert. That brings us to something that I'm going 
to say to you today for the last time. 

Marion. Oh, dear! I hope you're not going to be 
tiresome. 

Hubert. What are you going to do about Charles? 

Marion. What can I do? 

Hubert. Leave him. Divorce him and marry me. 
Let me take care of you. I haven't a title, it's true, 
although I believe there is one knocking about somewhere 
in the family. 

Marion. Now don't start that all over again, Hubert. 
Things are very pleasant as they are and I see no reason 
to change. 

Hubert. They're going to change. I'm absolutely 
fed up with coming to you in another man's house. 
You'll have to make up your mind between us and you'll 
have to make it up today. [Revette ejitcrs.] 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 53 

Revette. Sorry to have kept you waiting, Marion. 
Hello, Hubert! How are you? 

Hubert. Fit as a fiddle, thanks. And you? One 
needn't ask how you are. You're looking simply splendid. 

Revette. I do wish you'd come here oftener. 

Hubert. Really? Why? 

Revette. You're always so comforting. You re look- 
ing lovely, Marion. 

Marion. Thanks. So are you. I expected to find 
you pale and peaked but you're not. I expected to find 
you with cropped hair and flat heels, now that you've 
really made up your mind to be independent and all that 

sort of thing. ^ 

Revette. Thank heaven, my independence doesn't live 

in my heels. 

Hubert. May I smoke? 

Revette. Certainly. 

Hubert. Thanks. 

Revette. What an adorable hat. Paris? 

Marion. No! Vienna! 

Revette. I like it. Yes, I like it. What time did 
you get back? 

Marion. At two. The first thing I did was to send 
a message to you. 

Revette. It was nice of you to have made me your 
first thought. 

Marion. If I hadn't I suppose I might have stayed 
away forever. I should never have had a word from you. 

Revette. I've written to you twice. That's marvel- 
lous for me. Anyhow you know you're always welcome. 



54 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

I've told you so. As for me you know I never go any- 
v^here. 

Marion. You're developing into. a positive hermit. 

Revette. I've developed. 

Hubert. That's odd. I should think you'd have 
stacks of friends. Simply stacks of them. 

Revette. Whenever I hear of people having stacks 
of friends I'm perfectly sure in my own mind that they 
have none. Have some tea, Marion? Mr. Lang, being 
English, must be quite lost without it. 

Marion. I can't speak for Hubert. But I mustn't — 
beside we had lunch on the train. It was awful. 

Hubert. Quite awful. 

Revette. Then tea should have a double appeal. 

Hubert. I hate to smash one of the most cherished 
ideas of the American people with regard to Englishmen, 
Marion. But I never drink tea and I've never even seen 
a Bath bun. 

Marion. Oh, I have. They're delicious — all golden 
brown with the dearest little pieces of sugar all over 
them. But — I mustn't eat them. I mustn't think about 
them. 

Revette. Why not? 

Marion. Oh, I've started another course of banting; 
the tenth this season. I've lost two ounces in as many 
months. 

Revette. [As Anna enters with tray.] Here we are. 
Sure I can't tempt you, Marion? Anna has made some 
honey cakes especially for you, and since you've had no 
lunch — 

Marion. Honey isn't fattening, is it? 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 55 

Revette. It's positively emaciating. 

Hubert. That's like Marion. She cries tears as big 
as pigeon's eggs at refusing watery soup which she hates, 
only to fall victim to marrons glacees by the pound after 

dinner. 

Marion. You needn't laugh. Ten years from now 
you'll be doing the same thing yourself. Then your 
waistline, which at present is your principal asset, by the 
way, will be lost in one of those ponderous paunches 
that distinguish the portraits of your ancestors. 

[Anna having assisted with the tea goes out] 
Hubert. Well, ten years from now I shall be famous, 
and my faults will be viewed through fame's gentle haze. 
They will be regarded as virtues or at any rate as eccen- 
tricities. Isn't that so, Revette? 

Revette. I'm no authority. Although they do say 
that a contented waistline begets a contented mind. What 
more can you ask of mere success? 

Hubert. There may be something in that. 

Marion. Hubert, won't you go to Pachichi's for me 
and see if he has those new books of Wainwright's that 
I ordered. On the way back you might stop for me. 

Hubert. Now? Do you want them now? 

Marion. Yes, I want them now. 

Hubert. [Disgustedly.] Oh, very well. Is there 
anything I can do for you, Revette? 

Revette. No, nothing, thanks. 

Hubert. [To Marion.] Is there anything else you 
want ? 

Marion. No, that's all. 



56 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Hubert. Then I suppose I'd better be going. 

[He goes out.] 

Marion. Thank heaven. I thought he'd stay and talk 
forever. 

Revette. He's very much in love with you, isn't he? 

Marion. I've come to talk about you; not about me. 

Revette. That's comforting. Well, tell me all about 
your trip. 

Marion. The only part of my trip that I want to talk 
of is Madrid. I was there. 

Revette. I didn't know you were going to Madrid. 

Marion. Neither did I when I left here. But Charles 
came back unexpectedly so of course I had to go. I saw 
Miguel — 

Revette. Oh, did you ? 

Marion. I suppose you're going to say that I have 
no business concerning myself with your marital affairs. 
But I'm going to tell you what I think just the same. 

Revette. My dear Marion, the greatest privilege of 
friendship is to tell one's friends unpleasant truths. 
Now — 

Marion. Revette! I'm afraid of him. I do wish 
you'd go back before he comes. 

Revette. For the sake of argument merely — why? 

Marion. He'll do you some injury; I know he will. 
Let him find you at the Calle de San Pedro when he gets 
back. Not here! You know of course that he's leaving 
Madrid tonight? 

Revette. No, I didn't know. 

Marion. Well, he is. Oh, Revette, do go back. I'm 
afraid he'll do something terrible to you if you don't. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 57 

Revette. Nothing could be so terrible for me as going 
back. 

Marion. Well, he'll make you go back, whatever you 
say. 

Revette. How ? 

Marion. You're in Spain now, not America. The law 
is on his side. The law will make you go back. Oh, 
what's the use of having a scandal, perhaps worse, for 
nothing. Besides — 

Revette. And now what is it? 

Marion. [Glancing at picture.] Do you think you 
ought to have male models coming here? 

Revette. Why not? When I'm on a picture I am 
really too occupied with my subject to waste any time as 
to its sex. 

Marion. Yes. But that one is so handsome? 

Revette. He is called Don Isidor Perez. He hasn't 
been here for a week. A fact, by the way, that has put 
me very much back on that picture. As to his being 
handsome. Well, I'm painting Abelard. What would 
you, a gargoyle for a model? 

Marion. Miguel may not be so impersonal. 

Revette. Miguel has lost any right to criticize any- 
thing that I may do, from painting a handsome model 
to taking him for a lover. 

Marion. Is he your lover? 

Revette. No. 

Marion. Are you particularly interested in him? 

Revette. He's the most intelligent man I've ever met. 
His companionship has come to mean a great deal to me. 
But he's not my lover. 



58 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Marion. YouVe spent some thought on him at any 
rate. 

Revette. Quite a little. 

Marion. Well, I suppose that being an ordinary model 
he wouldn't have the impertinence to make love to you. 
Has he ever made love to you? 

Revette. Not since the first time I saw him. 

Marion. The first time you saw him ! The first time ! 
Well . . , 

Revette. Now having disposed of the handsome 
model and of Miguel, let's talk of something pleasant. 

Marion. We haven't disposed of Miguel; even if 
we've disposed of the handsome model. Miguel is abso- 
lutely determined that you shall go back. Well, I cer- 
tainly don't understand you. Of course this studio is 
very nice and all that kind of thing. But that beautiful 
house in Madrid — 

Revette. I didn't suppose that you would understand. 
And it isn't easy for me to explain things that are deep 
inside me, even to you — ^but one of these days, Marion — 
I'm going to get drunk. Then I shall become totally 
irresponsible and perhaps my tongue will loosen. 

Marion. You're impossible. Of course, I'm not 
foolish enough to think that Marietta was really the 
cause of the final breach. After all you can't really blame 
Miguel. Now, can you? Almost any man would have 
done the same. 

Revette. I daresay you're right. Miguel is a pro- 
found hypocrite. 

Marion. Most of us are. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 59 

Revette. All of us are. Even poor David uttered 
something of a bromide when he confided to the Almighty 
that all men are liars. 

Marion. What have you done with her? 

Revette. Done with her ? What do you mean — done 
with her? 

Marion. I mean. Where is she? 

Revette. Here. 

Marion. What? 

Revette. Of course. What did you expect me to do 
with her? Turn her out with her baby under her arm 
to starve, like a good old melodrama? No. Since nature 
and an incomprehensible social order have forced this 
baby on her the only thing to be done now is to make her 
shoulder her responsibility ; let her work and support it. 

Marion. Well, upon my soul — 

Revette. The baby's here too. 

Marion. Revette ! 

Revette. Yes. And you ought to see it. It's the 
most gorgeous thing in life. It's a HIM. It was his 
birthday yesterday. He was four weeks old. Really, 
Marion, he's a very beautiful baby. He has two great 
black eyes, just like Marietta's, and two soft little baby 
hands. Really, to look at him you'd think he was the 
most legitimate baby on earth. 

Marion. Well ! ! 

Revette. He has no marks that set him apart from 
legitimate babies. 

Marion. Don't you care at all for what people think ? 

Revette. To tell you the truth, no. After all, if I 
were to live my whole life solely to please other people 



6o THE WHITE PEACOCK 

I couldn't succeed in pleasing all of them. HI were to 
take out my heart and give it to the vultures, they would 
only complain and say, "Oh, what a little heart." No, I've 
come to the conclusion that if I please myself I shall at 
any rate succeed in pleasing one person. If I try to 
please other people I shall finish by pleasing neither them 
nor myself. 

Marion. You've never been ostracised yet. You 
don't know what it means. 

Marion. Those that love me won't ostracize me and 
why should I care about the others? 

Marion. You're very hard. 

Revette. I'm not hard at all. I'm not maudlin. 

Marion. And you won't go back and meet Miguel 
peaceably when he arrives ? 

Revette. No. 

Marion. And there's no one else? 

Revette. Not at present. 

Marion. That's the extraordinary part of it. You 
speak most dispassionately of all sorts of moral lapses 
but it's only your brain that's concerned ; never your body. 

Revette. For the reason that I have met no one that 
combines beauty, that is the introduction, with under- 
standing, that is the invitation to the banquet, and 
intelligence that pours the wine. And when I shall find 
this rara avis, what shall he see in me? 

Marion. Well, I had some arguments that seemed 
excellent when I came in ; but arguments that would 
appeal to any normal woman don't even interest you. 

Revette. Oh yes, they do. They interest me very 
much. You see I seem so natural to myself until I hear 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 6i 

someone speak as you speak and then I begin to wonder 
whether I'm mad, or whether the rest of the world is. 
Do you mind if I go on with my work? 

Marion. Not at all. I love to see you paint. I have 
an enormous admiration for any one that can paint. My 
face is as far as I have ever been able to get. [As 
Revette is putting on a smock and preparing her 
materials Marion goes to the painting, which she regards 
for a moment or two.] Well, he's certainly handsome. 
Revette. Yes. Do you like it? 

Marion. It's marvellous. [Turning abruptly from 
painting.] Oh, Lord! I wish I could do something. 

Revette. Ah ! you, too. At last. You're in love with 
Hubert, aren't you? 

Marion. I like him, yes. 
Revette. Is that all? 

Marion. As a matter of fact, no. Oh, dear, it's a 
complicated world. 

Revette. What are you going to do ? 
Marion. What can I do? 
Revette. Divorce Charles, of course. 
Marion. Revette ! 

Revette. Well, why not? He's given you cause 
enough, heaven knows. And you're not married to a 
Spaniard, you know. 

Marion. Oh, divorce is a filthy business. It washes 
the dirt in instead of out of your clothing and tears the 
fabrics to tatters in the process. Besides, I'm not the 
same lawless spirit you are. And I've paid dearly enough 
for the privilege of being Lady Marion Wyanock. 



62 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. I shouldn't think you'd want his name nor 
anything else belonging to him. 

Marion. Oh! It's all veiy well for you. Your 
maiden name, Dubowska, looks as well on a cheque as 
de Ribera. But think of Higgins — Marion Higgins. 

Revette. Well, even at that I don't think Higgins is 
so bad. It is your name and it's easy to spell. 'Pon my 
soul I'd rather finish up with Higgins on the tombstone 
than to lose my identity as the "beloved wife of." 
No, I think Higgins is rather nice. Charles is still inter- 
ested, I take it, in the lady. 

Marion. Oh, yes. In fact with several of them. 
There's one young person at the Gaiety called Lily May, 
or May Lily; something like that — that's worse than 
Higgins. 

Revette. Much worse. 

Marion. He's just bought her a sable coat. I sug- 
gested it. I was continually missing different little odds 
and ends and I thought that perhaps I might miss my 
sables some day into the bargain. May I smoke? 

Revette. Certainly. The cigarettes are on that table. 

Marion. Thanks. I have my own. Oh, I wouldn't 
mind that so much. One expects infidelity. But he gets 
so disgustingly drunk. 

Revette. And so you just go on and on. 

Marion. I must. What sort of a future should I 
have if I left him? No, I shall let Charles go his way 
and I shall go mine. 

Revette. With Hubert Lang? 

Marion. Discreetly, let it be said. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 63 

Revette. Yes. You're right. It is a complicated 
world. It all seems so unnecessary to me. 

Marion. That's because you don't hold with conven- 
tion. ^ 

Revette. No, I don't. You know to me Convention 
is like a widow that wears crepe to her knees and scarlet 

in her heart. 

Marion. Well, we can't all flaunt our scarlet m public, 

you know. 

Revette. No. And that's one of the saddest things 
in the world. The color scheme of our convention is as 
grey as our hypocrisy. But there's one thing certain, 
these conventions are undergoing some extraordmary 
evolutions these days. Sooner or later conventions as we 
know them will have turned a complete somersault. 
Marion. And when's that going to be. 
Revette. When all women become economically in- 
dependent. When they are taught to support themselves. 
Economic independence must be the salvation of women^ 
Marion. Well, it'll be the damnation of men. And 
what would you suggest for me? Driving a bus? 
Revette. You're always so literal, darling. 

[Hubert enters. His arms are full of packages. 
He has also a hunch of gardenias.] 
Hubert. [Presenting the flowers to Revette.] I 
thought you might like these, Revette, so I brought them 

along. 

Revette. That's awfully nice of you. 

Hubert. Sorry to have been so long, Marion. 

Anna. [Entering.] The model is here, Seiiora. 
Shall I tell him to come in? 



64 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revettr No. Ask Don Isidor to wait for a moment. 

Hubert. Well, I must be going. This will be good- 
bye for a time, Revette. I'm leaving tonight for Paris. 

Marion. Hubert. 

Revette. Haven't you made up your mind rather 
suddenly ? 

Hubert. As a matter of fact, no. I've been thinking 
about it for some time. However, I actually decided to 
go while I was at the booksellers. 

Marion. You don't mean that you're really leaving 
tonight. 

Hubert. On the eight-thirty. 

Marion. I think you're behaving disgracefully. 

Hubert. I'm sorry. 

Marion. Revette, I appeal to you. He's doing this 
just because I won't raise a scandal by going off some- 
where, heaven knows where, with him while they tear my 
reputation to shreds. 

Hubert. That isn't what I said at all. I didn't say 
you had to go anywhere with me. 

Marion. Then what did you say? 

Hubert. I said that you'd have to leave Charles. If 
you say so I won't even see you again until I meet you 
two minutes after the divorce is signed before the 
marriage notary. 

Marion. Revette. Tell him — 

Hubert. Charles or me — from now on. 

Revette. Let her have time to think, Hubert. After 
all, for Marion this is a serious step. Don't force her to 
do something on the spur of the minute that you may 
both be everlastingly sorry for. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 65 

Hubert. Spur of the minute— Good Lord, IVe been 
telling her this for months. Marion must know her own 
mind by this time. She's got to choose and she's got to 
choose now. [Turns to Marion.] Which is it to be? 
[Marion hesitates.] Very well. [He turns to go.] 

Marion. [Sharply.] Hubert. 

Revette. Give her till tonight, Hubert. Your train 
doesn't go till eight-thirty. 

Hubert. If I wait till then I'll get no sleeper, and I've 
lost as much sleep as I intend losing. 

Revette. Then another few hours won't mean much. 

Hubert. [After a moment's pause.] Very well. Till 
eight; not a minute later. 

Marion. Are you going to drive back with me, 
Hubert? 

Hubert. I'll drive with you as far as the hotel. 

Marion. Well, goodbye, dear. And, Revette, do 
think over what I've said. Although of course I know 
you won't. 

Revette. No, I won't. Let me hear from you tonight. 

Marion. Yes. Goodbye again. I'm sorry to have 
made a scene. 

Revette. Goodbye. Goodbye, Hubert. 

Hubert. Goodbye. 

[They go out. Revette turns again to her paint- 
ing. Marietta enters.] 

Marietta. May I speak to the Sefiora now? 

Revette. Yes. 

Marietta. Seiiora, I met Joselito, the porter, at 
market this morning and he told me something that I 
think the Seiiora ought to know. 



66 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. What is it? 

Marietta. It's about the model, Sefiora. 

Revette. About Don Isidor? 

Marietta. Yes, Sefiora. JoseUto says that is not his 
name. Joselito says that the Seiior is Don Cesar, the son 
of Don Caspar de Mendoza y Gonzales. He was sen- 
tenced to death for the murder of his father twelve years 
ago but broke gaol a few days before the execution 
should have taken place. 

Revette. Impossible. 

Marietta. That's what I told Joselito. But Joselito 
seems quite sure. He says that he was sentenced to death 
by the Seiior Don Miguel. He says that it is not safe 
for the Sefiora to let him come here. 

Revette. But what makes Joselito think this? 

Marietta. He recognized him from the painting the 
last time he came here to the studio. Joselito worked 
as page in the house of Don Caspar at the time of the 
murder. He as well as others didn't believe him guilty 
but — I thought I had better tell the Seiiora before she 
sees him. 

Revette. Of course. Of course. Ask him to come in. 
[As Marietta starts to go.] In the meantime don't speak 
of this to anyone. Cossip's ugly; whether it happens to 
be true or not. 

Marietta. I won't speak of it to anyone, Seiiora. 
[She goes out. Revette is plainly moved. Love 
for Cesar and fear for his safety can he read 
in her eyes, ] 

Cesar. [As he enters.] It was so good of you to send 
for me. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 67 

Revette. When I sent for you Fm afraid I was very 
selfish. I was thinking only of my picture. 

Cesar. Since you did send for me I don't care why 
you sent. These days have been like days spent in prison. 
I've existed, not lived. 

Revette. I appreciate your having come at all. For- 
tunately the picture will be finished today. 

Cesar. You are angry. 

Revette. No, I'm not angry. 

Cesar. What is it? What have I done? What is it? 
Tell me, please. 

Revette. The first day that you came here to pose 
for me I told you that I should never ask you any ques- 
tions. If I were to say now what is in my mind I should 
be forced to break my word. — Don Cesar de Mendoza y 
Gonzales ! [Cesar with heels together, hows low.] Then 
you are Cesar de Mendoza y Gonzales? 

Cesar. Since you ask me, yes. 

Revette. And you've come here to this house time 
after time in open daylight ! Are you quite mad? Have 
you forgotten that it was Don Miguel who passed sen- 
tence on you ? 

Cesar. No, I have not forgotten. That is one of the 
things that I shall never forget. 

Revette. I don't understand. 

Cesar. My excuse for coming that night was because 
of the fact that you were the wife of Don Miguel. 

Revette. Still I don't understand. 

Cesar. That night at the Inn of the Black Bull 
when I looked at you, I loved you. It seemed to me 
that I have always known you ; that you had come back 



68 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

to me after a long absence; not that I was seeing you 
for the first time. I had an almost uncontrollable impulse 
to come over to your table, but I remembered who and 
what I was. I knew I could never even speak to you, 
much less be anything to you, and I felt more bitter 
against fate than I had felt in all the years of my exile. 
Then I heard someone mention your name. I saw red. 
The man that had made a hell of my life had the right 
to hold you in his arms in peace and safety. I said to 
myself: she belongs to me. I followed you — 

Revette. And you were recognized by the police. 
It was they that were following you that night? 

Cesar. No. Two civilians who thought they recog- 
nized me and who would have been very willing to have 
sold me to the pohcc for five thousand pesetas. God, what 
men will do for five thousand pesetas ! I suppose I should 
have told you all this long ago. But I knew that you'd 
forbid me to come here again. I'd have done anything 
10 prevent that. 

Revette. You should have told me. You should 
have told me. Oh, why have you taken such a terrible 
risk in coming here? 

Cesar. I have risked my life so often during these 
■Revette. But — 

worth risking two lives, if I had them, 
years for nothing, that to see you, to be with you, was 

Cesar. What? 

Revette. Still I don't understand why you should 
have been so bitter against Don Miguel. After all, when 
he sentenced you, he was only the mouthpiece of a jury. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 69 

Cesar. Don Miguel was responsible for my father's 
death. 

Revette. What are you saying? What do you mean ? 

Cesar. You may not know that it is expressly for- 
bidden that a justice should engage in trade. Thirteen 
years ago while my father was in office Don Miguel was 
very active in some shady shipping deals at Barcelona. 
Of course he was wise enough not to appear in the matter 
in his own person ; but rogues fall out. He couldn't play 
fair even with them. The result was that a letter impli- 
cating Don Miguel fell into my father's hands. The next 
day my father was killed. 

Revette. But why didn't this come out at the trial. 

Cesar. I didn't know it until long after I broke gaol. 
Then it was too late. 

Revette. I've been in Spain only four years. I was 
not here at the time of the case. How was it they con- 
victed you? 

Cesar. The verdict was given on what looked like 
incontrovertible evidence. After all, it was plain enough. 
Pa^icide is an ugly crime in Spain. 

Revette. What was the evidence? 

Cesar. It was known in Sevilla that my father and 
I quarrelled, quarrelled frequently. The night he died 
we had had a more violent disagreement than usual. I 
made threats that didn't sound well when they were re- 
peated in court by the servants with interesting elabora- 
tions. That night I left him in a passion. I went to my 
room and I went to sleep. About one o'clock I was 
awakened by noises downstairs. I got up and went down. 
As I got to the door of my father's reading room, I heard 



70 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

a shni. I opened the door just in time to see my father 
fall and a man disappearing through the French windows. 
I was amazed to see my own gun lying within a few feet 
from the body. I stooped to pick it up. The servants 
came in, and there I was with the gun in my hand. 

Revette. But the man — Didn't you have him fol- 
lowed? 

Cesar. Yes. But he'd disappeared as completely as 
though an earthquake had swallowed him. If it weren't 
that I saw him again a little more than a year ago in a 
gypsy dive in Granada I might think I'd been the victim 
of a hallucination. 

Revette. You saw him again at Granada? 

Cesar. Yes, Granada is very popular with criminals. 
They all turn up there sooner or later. Oh, but why 
should I weary you with my story! 

Revette. Oh, please! Please! You're sure that it 
was the same man that you saw at Granada? 

Cesar. One could never forget that face. He has a 
deep scar that runs from the left temple clear to the chin. 
That night as I entered the dive he was entertaining a 
party of cut throats as drunk as himself, at a table facing 
the door. I recognized him immediately. He was 
boasting of his bravery, of his exploits, of his conquests 
among women. Among the party there was a pretty 
gypsy girl called Maraquita that he seemed anxious to 
impress. She called him Lightning. Since then that 
name has figured prominently in the newspapers as the 
coolest and bravest bandit in Spain. 

Revette. Lightning. Yes. Yes, I have read of him. 

Cesar. Well, I went over to his table and offered to 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 71 

stand for the next round of wine. He accepted and 
offered me a chair. By degrees I led him to speak of 
Seville. He told the story of my father's murder with 
the most ghastly details and was furious with Don Miguel 
for the price he'd paid him for the job. He even passed 
round a knife with the arms of our house "Apres Moi 
Quoi?" engraved on the handle. It seems he has a craze 
for collecting souvenirs of his victims. Suddenly for no 
apparent reason he became suspicious; although I was 
known in the house, and I was disguised so that my own 
mother wouldn't have known me. The feeling spread to 
the others and before you could count three I was outside 
on my head. When I came to I was lying at the gates 
of the Alcazar and the sun was shining. Since then I've 
followed him from one rumour to another. I followed 
him here nine weeks ago and — Well, now you know. 
You say nothing, Senora? 

Revette. What can I say? What is there to say? 
But oh! how could you have been so mad as to have 
come here? 

Cesar. Since that night when I was mad ; mad enough 
to come to you in the way I did, I have only lived for 
the time when I was to see you again. That night I tried 
to make myself believe that ordinary justice gave me a 
right over you; but when you looked at me; when you 
spoke — then I knew that I loved you, that I wanted you 
only if you wanted me. Then when you told me I might 
come and sit for you it seemed that for the first time in 
twelve years, the clouds lifted and the sun shone out. 
Since then nothing else has mattered but you, not even 
the man I came to find, not even death. 



^2 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. Don't ! Don't ! Don't you realize what your 
death would mean to me? I shouldn't have allowed you 
to come here. If you are captured it will be because of 
my own colossal carelessness. 

Cesar. Would it mean anything more to you than that? 

\As he speaks Marietta enters. She is terrified. 
She clasps and unclasps her hands as she tries 
to control her voice.] 

Marietta. Seiiora, Sefiora! 

Revette. What is it? What is it, Marietta? 

Marietta. The Senor Don Miguel. 

Revette. [Stands for a moment transfixed. She 
turns an agonised face to Cesar. Then very quietly.] 
Where? 

Marietta. Downstairs, Seiiora. What shall I do? 

Revette. Is the Senor in the house? 

Marietta. Yes, Sefiora. [Marietta goes out.] 

Revette. Please go. Go at once. 

Cesar. I should only run into his arms. I'll stay. 

Revette. No, you can go by the balcony. 

Cesar. I want to see Don Miguel again. 

Revette. Is it courage to put your head in the mouth 
of a lion? 

Cesar. I don't very much care. 

Revette. Once you told me that if ever I needed 
your Hfe it was mine. I need it now. 

Cesar. Please don't ask me to run away from your 
husband. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 73 

Revette. Don Cesar, I need this room alone. My 
husband may have things to say to me that he will not 
care to say before a stranger. 

Cesar. I did not mean to be discourteous. I will wait 
in the change room. 

[Cesar goes up stairs. Revette takes up her 
palette and brushes, and with trembling hands 
goes back to the canvas. Miguel enters. He 
smiles disagreeably as he sees her at work. As 
he crosses to the foot of the staircase he catches 
sight of Cesar's hat. He pushes it idly with the 
point of his stick.] 

Miguel. Your welcome is scarcely cordial, my dear. 

Revette. It isn't easy for me to pretend. 

Miguel. Sometimes it's advisable. You don't even 
express surprise that I am back some days before I was 
expected. 

Revette. It isn't for me to say when you shall come 
and ^o from Sevilla. 

Miguel. It is difficult to believe that a dutiful wife 
can show such coldness at the return of an absent hus- 
band. Or is that you have forgotten that you are my 
wife? 

[He makes a sudden movement to take her in his 
arms. Revette throwing down her brush 
strikes him full across the mouth.] 

Revette. I warned you never to touch me again. 



74 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

[For a moment she stands very quietly recovering 
her poise. Then she crosses to the opposite side 
of the room. At first Miguel is furious. Then 
his lips curl in a saturnine smile.] 

Miguel. How amusing! We resort to primitive tac- 
tics like a peasant with her first lover. But you needn't 
be so coy with me, my dear. I don't need that kind of 
stimulation. 

Revette. H you have any reason for coming here, 
will you please let me know what it is? H you have no 
reason, will you please go and let me get on with my 
work? 

Miguel. You will need some covering for your head. 
Then we will go. 

Revette. I thought I had already made it quite clear 
that I had left the Calle de San Pedro for all time. 

Miguel. You talk like a child. Do you really think 
you have any voice in the matter at all? Little wives 
that will not wive can be made to wive. 

Revette. I would rather die than go back to you. 

Miguel. That is your privilege. Your duty is to obey 
me. 

Revette. Duty ! Duty ! You should be the last person 
in the world to use that term. And yet there was a time 
when I didn't understand the meaning of that word either. 
I thought once that duty meant submission, even at the 
price of logic, of self respect. That's what made me 
carry on for as long as I did. While everything I rever- 
enced, every ideal I had, you held up to ridicule, laughed 
at and insulted. You made my body a thing to shudder 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 75 

at. I was afraid to be alone with my own soul. Then 
one day I saw the light. That was the day when you 
would have sent that poor child Marietta away, without 
a thought as to what might become of her. And for 
what? After all, for what? For doing what you do 
whenever it pleases you to do it. Then I knew that 
duty is the thing I owe to my conception of what is just 
and decent. Thank God, I've a trade, but even if I 
hadn't I would rather have gone out and scrubbed floors 
than lived one other day under the same roof with you. 

Miguel. The stage should have been your metier, 
Doiia Revette, not painting. However, private theatricals 
bore me to extinction. You've been fed and clothed. 
You've had the privilege of bearing my name, and as 
long as you bear that name I'm going to see to it that 
you bring no disgrace upon it. For the rest my time is 
limited and my patience exhausted. Come. 

Revette. I shall not go from here. 

Miguel. Do you really think I'm going to permit you 
to stay here, with your lover? 

Revette. I have no lover. I wish to God I had. 

Miguel. You harlot. 

Revette. Yes, you're right. To have lived with you 
under your roof, to have been fed and clothed as you say 
and to have given my body in payment, despising you as 
I did, that was the essence of harlotry. But that's all 
over now. Now I'm eating my own bread. I'm living 
under my own roof. 

Miguel. Alone? 

Revette. Alone. 

Miguel, Liar. [He turns to the stairway. '\ 



^d THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. Where are you going? 

Miguel. Fm going to ask your lover if he isn't tired 
of hiding in there. 

Revette. I've told you I have no lover. 

Miguel. Swear it. No, don't. I wouldn't take a 
woman's oath on the cross. 

Revette. Very well, open that door. And you'll make 
yourself so ridiculous that all Spain will laugh at you. 

Miguel. You swear that there is no one in there. 

Revette. My model is in that room. When they told 
me that you were here I asked him to go in there and 
wait. I knew we should have just the sort of a scene 
we have had and even I have no desire to have my affairs 
discussed in every tavern in Sevilla. Well, open the door 
and see if what I tell you isn't true. 

Miguel. No. Since this is your house and since this 
is your model, it would be unbecoming of me to take upon 
myself that authority. You must open it. 

\As he speaks the door opens and Cesar comes 
out. Revette's hack is to the door. At the 
sound of his voice her face stiffens with horror. 
It is some seconds before she regains command 
of herself.^ 

Cesar. If the Seiiora doesn't need me any more today, 
I may go? 

Revette. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting beyond 
your hour. Yes, you may go. 

Miguel. One moment. The fault is mine. I'm sorry 
to have delayed you in your work. Still the light will 
serve for another hour. I will come back. By the way, 
my dear? I have always under- rated your powers as an 



THE WHITE PEACOCK yy 

artist. It is really an excellent portrait. [Miguel picks 
up his hat and stick. He walks slowly to the door. Then 
he turns.] I trust you will be ready when the carriage 
comes. In an hour. 

[Miguel exits. Both Revette and Cesar stand 
motionless until the lower door is heard to slam.] 

Revette. Oh, why did you come out? Why? 

Cesar. There are limits to my self control. Another 
second and I should have stuck a knife in him. 

Revette. If he has recognized you, it means your 
death. 

Cesar. If he'd recognized me he wouldn't have gone. 

Revette. Don Miguel is a strange man. He never 
lets his right hand know what his left hand is going to do. 

Cesar. He didn't recognize me. 

Revette. I am afraid ! 

Cesar. Is it because you care for me that you are 
afraid? 

Revette. Care ! 

Cesar. [Taking her in his arms.] Since I first saw 
you I have prayed that I might see that look in your eyes. 

Revette. I love you. 

Cesar. Say it again. 

Revette. I love you. 

Cesar. Even the executioner can't take that from me. 

Revette. You must leave Spain, now ! today ! 

Cesar. You can't send me away. 

Revette. You must go ; don't you see that you must ? 

Cesar. I'm not asking you to share my exile. 

Revette. Exile? How could there be any exile for 



78 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

me where you are. Do you think anything could prevent 
my leaving with you now, except that while alone you 
may stand some chance of safety, with me you never 
could. You suggested some memory to Don Miguel. I 
know it. I feel it. Even if he didn't absolutely recognize 
you. If we were to go now to the end of the world he'd 
find us. If he were to see you again, that suspicion would 
become a certainty. He'd have a double reason then for 
delivering you up to justice. Unless you leave Spain now 
while you have a chance, he'll get you sooner or later and 
I shall have helped to tie a noose around your neck with 
my own hands. 

Cesar. If you love me how can you ask me to go? 

Revette. It is because I do love you that I do ask it. 
All my Ufe I have prayed that just such a love as yours 
might come to me. All my life I've prayed for just 
such an understanding as we have known in these few 
short weeks. And now my prayer is answered in the 
person of a man whom to love would be to destroy. Like 
Moses I'm led to Pisgah and I may not enter the promised 
land. You've called me proud, a peacock. If ever I had 
any pride it's all gone now. My pride is in the dust. 
My wings are broken. 

Cesar. That I should have brought this suffering on 
you. 

Revette. Don't say that. Please don't say that. 
You've brought me the only thing in life that really 
matters. It's worth any price. This suffering is only 
fear for you. If I could be sure that you were safe I 
would do anything, give anything, be anything. Nothing 
could hurt me any more. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 79 

Cesar. I won't go. 

Revette. What can I say to you? What can I say? 

Cesar. Nothing. 

Revette. Listen to me. Please Hsten to me. For my 
sake, not for yours. Leave Spain. Don't give me the 
awful torture of living from day to day, from hour to 
hour, from minute to minute, with the knowledge that 
you are always in danger, that at any moment you may 
be taken. I couldn't bear it, I couldn't. To lie awake 
at night and say: "Perhaps even now his body is being 
carried back to Sevilla and I can do nothing. Not even 
see him." I should go mad. If you go now, America, 
Australia, anywhere, you would be safe from them. 
Later when things have quieted I could come to you. In 
the meantime I must find a way; there must be some 
way to clear you of this awful thing. 

Cesar. Do you think I would let you come to me 
unless I were cleared? Do you think I would let you 
ruin your life with the shadow that hangs over mine? 
The only chance I have of ever being anything to you 
lies in my staying here. They say the day of miracles 
is past and only a miracle can bring this to pass. I prom- 
ise I won't run any unnecessary risks. More than that 
I cannot say. You know where to find me when you 
want me. 

[Cesar takes her hand and kisses it passionately. 
Revette's head is bowed upon the other arm and 
she does not look up. Cesar goes out. The 
sound of Revette's weeping stirs the soft hush 



8o THE WHITE PEACOCK 

of the room. After a few moments Marietta 
enters. She has a letter on a salver in her hand. 
She regards her weeping mistress.] 

Marietta. Is my Seiiora ill? 
Revette. No. No, Marietta. 

Marietta. A letter for the Seiiora from the Sefior 
Don Miguel. 

[Revette takes the letter. Her eyes are full of 
dread and despair.] 

Revette. Thank you. 

[Marietta goes out. Revette regards the letter, 
afraid to read it, and yet afraid not to read it. 
She tears the envelope. She rises to her feet. 
It is apparent from her expression that the note 
contains news that Cesar has been either recog- 
nised or captured. She crushes the letter in her 
hands. At first her voice is almost a whisper, 
then it rises almost to a scream as the curtain 
falls.] 

No, no, no. 



ACT III 



ACT III. 

// is a room in the house of Don Miguel in the Calle 
de San Pedro. It is lofty and spacious. Red is 
suggested in the hangings and in the upholstery. At 
the back of the scene is a double window, the wings 
of which open out. Below it is a wide window seat 
heaped with crimson cushions. Trailing vines hang 
from the embrasure. Against the walls are low 
Moorish stools, with carved and inlaid legs. To the 
right there is an inlaid table. A high carved chair 
is on one side; a lower chair on the other. To the 
left there is a divan. The time is twilight of the 
same day as the previous act. 

At the rise of the curtain Miguel is discovered seated 
at the table. He examines some papers. Every now 
and then he raises his head and gases at the clock 
before him. His manner is irritated, impatient. 
Then he rises; takes one or two hurried turns about 
the room. Stopping suddenly in his perambulations, 
he goes to the bell rope and pulls savagely. A few 
seconds, and Pedro, an aged servant, enters. He 
carries a tray of zvine and glasses. He puts them 
on the table. 

Pedro. A thousand pardons if I kept the Seiior 
waiting. 

Miguel. Don't waste more time in apologies. 

83 



84 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Pedro. Shall I pour some wine for the Seiior? 

Miguel. No, no wine. Give me some brandy. [As 
Pedro pours the brandy, he overturns one of the glasses 
with a slight tinkle.] Lout. 

Pedro. Pardon, Seiior. My hand trembled. 

Miguel. When servants become so old that their 
hands tremble they are of no further use to their masters. 

Pedro. Pardon, Sefior. It was an accident. I am 
not well today. 

Miguel. Then see a doctor. 

Pedro. Can a doctor make one sleep without dream- 
ing? 

Miguel. Dreams! Grandmother's tales. 

Pedro. It is not of my grandmother that I dream, 
Seiior. It is of the Senor. 

Miguel. So you excuse your negligence while you are 
awake by dreaming of me when you're asleep. 

Pedro. Last night I had a terrible dream of the Seiior. 
It has been with me all day. [Miguel sips his wine 
abstractedly. ] I dreamed that the Seiior was a boy again. 
And I thought that the old Sefior, his father, was alive. 
I dreamed that the Seiior was playing with the little dog 
Rey; the one that died of rat poison. The Sefior re- 
members? Suddenly as I watched, the dog turned into 
a tiger. I called to the Seiior to run. The Seiior only 
laughed and put out his hand to the beast. Then I saw 
it crouch, ready to spring. I wanted to throw myself 
in between, but I wasn't brave enough. I turned and 
ran. I heard a crunching of bones and I screamed and 
screamed. I woke screaming. All the day that dream 
has been with me. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 85 

Miguel. You're getting into your dotage. You may go. 

Pedro. There is a caballero downstairs that wishes 
to see the Sefior, Don Rafael Roderiguez. 

Miguel. Why didn't you say so before? Show him up. 

Pedro. Yes, Senor. 

[Pedro goes out. He returns with Rafael. 
Rafael has been drinking and has reached the 
swaggering stage. He is inclined to he quarrel- 
some. Pedro stands as though awaiting fresh 
orders. Miguel turns to him curtly.] 

Miguel. I am not at home. See to it that I'm not 
disturbed by you nor by any one else until I ring. 
Pedro. Very well, Sefior. [Pedro goes out.] 
Miguel. Well? 
Rafael. Twenty-two Calle de San Sebastien. Name 

— Isidor Perez. 

Miguel. Whom did you leave to watch? 

Rafael. Manuel Cortez. He's dear, but he's worth 
it. He'll stick closer than a creditor. 

Miguel. W^hat time did you leave? 

Rafael. About seven. 

Miguel. And it's taken you all this time to get here? 

Rafael. I had some business. 

Miguel. When I need you, all other business must be 
put aside including the business of women and wine- 
bibbing. 

Rafael. Who says so? 

Miguel. I say so. How many times am I to warn 
you that wine will be the means of putting your neck into 
a steel collar one of these days? 



86 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Rafael. I know what I'm doing. Til take care of my 
neck. 

Miguel. Men that drink and consort with promiscu- 
ous women can never take care of their necks. 

Rafael. Then you'll take care of it for me. 

Miguel. I certainly will. Even if I have to put you 
where you'll no longer be a menace to the public safety. 

Rafael. Me a menace? Me! That's very good. 
[He laughs drunkenly, and suddenly becomes ugly.] And 
you're a fine one to talk about promiscuous women after 
what I know. After what I've seen here in your own 
house. You and your fancy girls. Promiscuous women ! 
Ho ! Ho ! And what do you mean : "you'll put me ?" 
Better than you have tried that before now. 

Miguel. Do you want the whole house to know your 
business ? 

Rafael. I don't care who hears. Besides, no one can 
hear from this room. You've seen to that. Nice thick 
walls — ^top of the house — everything for comfort and — 
safety. [Commences to sing.] 

Miguel. Quiet, you fool. 

Rafael. Who's a fool? Don't call me a fool. 

Miguel. What else are you ? In a crisis like this you 
can calmly disappear for an hour and then turn up half 
drunk. 

Rafael. I'm not drunk. I'm sober. Absolutely 
sober. See my hand. It doesn't move now. Does it? 
If you think I'm drunk now you ought to see me to- 
morrow. I'll be drunk then — drunker than hell. And 
don't tell me what I should do and what I shouldn't do. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 87 

Miguel. I'm not telling you to do anything. I'm 
simply suggesting that for your own sake it might be as 
well to be ordinarily discreet. 

Rafael. I have been discreet. I left him in charge 
of Cortez. He hasn't a chance on earth to slip Cortez. 

MiGXJEL. He gave his warders the slip twelve years 
ago. 

Rafael. Well, he won't slip Cortez. Anyhow, am I 
a cat that I should sit to watch mouseholes? I found 
the hole. That's enough for one day. 

Miguel. And the mouse was found for you. If 
you'd had any sense 3^ou'd have found the hole ten weeks 
ago when I told you he was rumoured in Sevilla. 

Rafael. Oh, rumours, rumours ! I'm sick of rumours. 
Besides, didn't I search every hole and corner that a re- 
spectable criminal would hide in? How was I to know 
that he'd be such a fool as to choose a place like the 
Calle de San Sebastien ; nice and quiet as though he were 
a college professor; walking in and out as calm as you 
please, just waiting for some one to recognize him and 
turn him over to the police and collect five thousand 
pesetas. 

Miguel. You're sure of Cortez, speaking of rewards? 

Rafael. He isn't going to be so foolish as to give him 
up for five thousand when he's been promised ten. 

Miguel. If you'd been more thorough, he wouldn't 
have had to have even that. 

Rafael. I tell you I was thorough. Some one had 
to be in on it, hadn't they? And, if it comes to thorough- 
ness, you didn't show any particular thoroughness either. 
He just walked into your arms, like a child to its nurse. 



88 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

And then you didn't recognize him till you'd had time to 
get downstairs to your carriage. And if you hadn't had 
a coachman to leave on watch while you got me, he'd 
have slipped us both. And if I hadn't been at home when 
your message came your recognizing him wouldn't have 
done any good as far as catching him is concerned. It 
was I that followed him up and down every alley in 
Seville to the Calle de San Sebastian. It was I that sewed 
him up so tight that he has as much chance of getting out 
as a one horned bull has of goring Chicquello the 
matador. Thorough — well — 

Miguel. I'm not discrediting your share in the matter. 

RAPAJii:. And you'd better not. Well, now we've got 
him, what do you want to do with him? 

Miguel. There's one thing certain. He mustn't fall 
into the hands of the police. There might be a reopening 
of the trial. That would be suicide for us both. 

Rafael. Well, he don't have to fall into their hands. 
Have him croaked accidental like. 

Miguel. That won't do either. There are other com- 
plications. 

Rafael. What complications? 

Miguel. The Senora de Ribera. How much has he 
told her? 

Rafael. He wouldn't be such a fool as to tell her 
anything. 

Miguel. A man in love is always a fool. 

Rafael. In love? 

Miguel. Don Cesar is in love with my wife. 

Rafael. In love with your wife? Phew — the devil 
and the deep blue sea ! 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 89 

Miguel. Precisely. Whichever way the thing goes 
now there's bound to be pubUcity. Of two evils we can 
only choose the lesser. 

Rafael. And what's that? 

Miguel. To see that that publicity reflects as advan- 
tageously as possible on me. 

Rafael. How ? 

Miguel. How far the thing has gone I don't know, 
but I do know that it's gone far enough on his side to 
make him willing to risk his neck to do her a service. 

Rafael. I don't see — 

Miguel. He must have heard my conversation with 
my wife this afternoon. He must have heard me order 
her back to this house and heard her refuse. Now if 
he were to believe that she had been brought back here 
forcibly — 

Rafael. [Whistles softly.] He'd fly like a bird to 
its mate. 

Miguel. Exactly. Now public opinion is very in- 
dulgent to husbands that take vengeance on faithless 
wives and on the men that have dishonored their homes. 
Retribution is not murder. 

Rafael. How will you get her here? 

Miguel. [Taking letters from pocket.] If I were to 
promise free passage out of Spain to Don Cesar I think 
that she would come. 

Rafael. What did you say in your first letter? 

Miguel. Merely that I had recognized him and that 
we had him under guard. [Giving Rafael the two 
envelopes.] This is for Don Cesar. Deliver that first. 



90 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

This is for the Seiiora. Now hurry and see that you 
don*t bungle this time. 

Rafael. Bungle! Me bungle? When did you ever 
know me to bungle? 

Miguel. It was your cursed bungling twelve years 
ago that's responsible for this mess now. 

Rafael. Well, I like that. Bungle ! Well ! I got the 
lettter for you, didn't I ? I saved you from being kicked 
out of office, didn't I? I did my part of the business. 
I murdered and robbed him. And I got the letter. That 
was the principal thing. And if the Premier were to 
know even now about those leaky ships and the money 
you coined — 

Miguel. Of which you got more than your share. 

Rafael. What you gave me, you mean. If the 
Premier were to find out^ 

Miguel. There isn't a piece of actual evidence in 
existence against me. 

Rafael. There's me. 

Miguel. You wouldn't be quite such a fool. 

Rafael. That depends — that depends — What do I 
get for this job? 

Miguel. I'll tell you when the "job" is completed. 
You'll get what's fair and equitable. 

Rafael. You don't think I'm going to stand on your 
ideas of equity, do you? I want sixty thousand pesetas 
and I want them now. 

Miguel. Don't be absurd. 

Rafael. Sixty thousand pesetas. That's what I want. 
I'm getting tired of this killing business. It's lost its 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 91 

novelty. I want to retire and settle down quiet and 
respectable like a caballero. Like you, for instance. 

Miguel. Sixty thousand pesetas. Are you crazy? 

Rafael. No, I'm not crazy. I want my money. 

Miguel. Less noise. 

Rafael. I want my money — And don't talk to me as 
though I were your inferior. I'm as good as you are. 
Better. Talking to me as though I were a bloody 
scoundrel and you a little, white wooly lamb. We're 
brothers — ^brothers in blood. In Don Caspar's blood. 

Miguel. There's no object in getting excited over 
anything so trifling as social distinctions. Our interests 
are alike, our safety mutual ; so long, that is, as you are 
reasonable. I'll give you forty thousand pesetas — twenty 
tonight and twenty thirty days from now. Not a peseta 
more; not a peseta less. 

Rafael. I won't take them. 

Miguel. Oh, yes you will. 

Rafael. I want sixty thousand pesetas. 

Miguel. And I'll give you forty. Judas sold Christ 
for less, and he hadn't the same interest — safety. Well? 

Rafael. You needn't think I shan't get even for that 
other twenty. 

Miguel. I hope we may both live long enough for 
you to keep your promise. And now you'd better be 
getting on. This must be settled tonight. 

Rafael. Tonight. It will be. It will be. 

[Rafael rises from the table forgetting the knife 
with which he has been whittling his nails 
through the latter part of the scene. He goes 



92 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

out. Miguel pulls open a drawer of the table 
and takes from it a gun which he slips into his 
pocket. He fills another glass of brandy and is 
in the act of drinking it as Revette enters.] 

Revette. Miguel. 

Miguel. Dona Revette. This is an unlocked for 
pleasure. 

Revette. Didn't you know that I'd come? 

Miguel. I didn't expect you so soon. Well, since you 
are here, won't you sit down. 

Revette. I've come to make a bargain with you, 
Miguel. 

Miguel. Bargain? That word is scarcely reasonable 
between you and me. Well, what is this bargain ? 

Revette. Miguel! This afternoon I told you that 
there was nothing in the world that could persuade me 
to go back to you. I was wrong. I will come back — 
if you'll let Don Cesar de Mendoza go free. He's inno- 
cent. Let him go. 

Miguel. Since when, my dear, have you taken it upon 
yourself to set up your judgment against the judgment 
of the state? 

Revette. I'm not setting up my judgment against the 
state's, and yet the state has been known to make mistakes. 

Miguel. The state never makes mistakes. He was 
found guilty by a jury. The law must take its course, 
unless you have found some new and irrefutable proof 
that the law is wrong. 

Revette. I have no proof. 

Miguel. Then I can do nothing. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 93 

Revette. You could let him go if you would. 

Miguel. Even to do you a service I cannot interfere 
with the procedure of the law. 

Revette. You could let him escape. 

Miguel. You talk like a child. 

Revette. You could grant him a passport out of 
Spain. He'd trouble neither Spain nor you again. 

Miguel. The matter is out of my hands. 

Revette. But your letter said that he would not be 
sent to Madrid until tonight. An opportunity could still 
be made for him to escape. 

Miguel. Impossible. 

Revette. Then let him have a new trial. 

Miguel. A conviction has been obtained. A new trial 
can not be permitted. 

Revette. Still, they won't execute him without a 
hearing. 

Miguel. He said all he had to say. He will be exe- 
cuted immediately on reaching Madrid— unless he should 
resist. In that case he would be shot without ceremony. 

Revette. You won't let this thing happen. You 
shan't — 

Miguel. And why not? A jury pronounced him 
guilty and I don't find it in my conception of things to 
make it easier for my wife's lover. 

Revette. He's not my lover. As the world under- 
stands that term, as you understand it, he's not. 

Miguel. You tried unsuccessfully to convince me of 
that this afternoon. 

Revette. And I told you the truth, Miguel. If you'll 
let him go I swear to you I'll never see him again. I won't 



94 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

commtiniciate with him. For me he shall be — dead. I'll 
obey you in word and deed for the rest of my life if you'll 
only let him go. 

Miguel. And now you want me to believe that you'll 
break every oath you made this afternoon, merely for the 
sake of a man whom you say you do not love. No, really, 
this is too much. 

Revette. I did not say I did not love him; I said he 
was not my lover. He's not. 

Miguel. You draw fine distinctions, my dear. 

Revette. No, love is something that can rise above 
fleshly things. Love is willing to give and to suffer. 
That's the love I have for this man and he for me. And 
I'm glad my eyes have been lifted to the hills, even though 
I may never climb them. I'm glad, for once, that I'm 
alive, because I believe that my being has meant some 
happiness for him. I would be very willing to give my 
life for him as he would be willing to give his for me. 
That's love, Miguel. 

Miguel. I'm afraid my carnal mind cannot soar to 
such heights. 

Revette. I promise you that if you'll let him go I'll 
prove my gratitude to you until I die. My independence, 
the dearest thing in life to me, shall bow to your will. 
I'll prove at home and abroad my obedience. I'll wipe out 
any gossip there may have been — 

Miguel. Don't prolong this discussion )any longer. 

Revette. If you don't let him go you won't hold 
office another week. 

Miguel. You talk like a mad woman. 

Revette. I may be mad. Sometimes I think it's 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 95 

difficult to distinguish between madness and sanity. I 
think you're mad to refuse. 

Miguel. Indeed? 

Revette. Yes. You've everything to gain by accept- 
ing and everything to lose by refusing. 

Miguel. Don't you rather over rate your importance? 

Revette. You know best. You know what an 
enquiry into your shipping activities at Barcelona twelve 
years ago might mean. 

Miguel. Shipping! Barcelona! Women that give 
utterance to less absurd hallucinations than yours are put 
into institutions where their mental condition may be 
inquired into. 

Revette. You can't frighten me. Besides, I don't 
care now what happens to me. And even if you could 
do as you threaten, could you cut out my tongue? 

Miguel. The ravings of maniacs are heard only by 
those accustomed to such things. 

Revette. Even so? Do you suppose that I'm so 
absolutely friendless that I shall just disappear without 
some questions being asked? 

Miguel. Your friends will be properly advised. 

Revette. Yes. And they would cause such gossip as 
would rock your ministerial chair much too violently for 
safety — [Pedro enters.] 

Miguel. What is it? I thought I told you that I was 
not to be disturbed. 

Pedro. Yes, Senor. But there is a caballero down- 
stairs, Don Manuel Cortez. He won't go away. He says 
he has urgent business with the Senor. 

Miguel. Cortez — I'll see him. [Pedro goes out.] 



96 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Don't make any useless fuss. The servants will have their 
orders. [Miguel goes toward door.] 

Revette. Miguel ! Just a moment before you go. 

[Revette goes quickly toward him but before she 
can reach the door Miguel has gone, and the 
key is heard turning in the lock. She turns the 
handle unavailing once or twice. Then she goes 
to the window. Leaning over the sill she calls. ] 

Marietta ! Marietta ! 

Marietta. [From below.] Yes, Senora. 
Revette. Did you find Captain Lang? 
Marietta. Yes, Senora. 

[Revette looks nervously towards the door. She 
leaves the window and walks toward the table 
deep in thought. She sits. Her head on her 
hand, her eyes vague, hunted. Suddenly her 
gaze is arrested by some object lying on the table. 
She slowly picks it up. It is the knife left by 
Rafael. As she reads the inscription her 
despair is tempered with hope. For a second 
or two she stands irresolute. Then she goes 
quickly to the window and calls again.] 

Revette. Marietta, catch this. Hide it about you 
somewhere. 

Marietta. Yes, Senora. 

Revette. When Captain Lang gets here, tell him — 

[There is a noise of footsteps coming along the 
passage. Then there is a fumbling at the lock. 
Revette hurriedly steps behind the curtain.] 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 97 

Rafael. What have you got the door locked for. 
Stupid to lock doors — [He enters.] I delivered the 
letter to the Calle de San Pedro. He should be here any 
minute. I say — [Perceiving that Miguel is not in the 
room.] Nov^ v^hat do you think of that? Gone! [He 
goes toward table and starts to search among the articles 
that litter it.] What did I do with that knife .^ 

[As he proceeds with his search Revette comes 
from behind the curtain. She stands for a 
moment and then comes down to the chair that 
stands by the table.] 

Revette. Good evening. 

Rafael. [Looking up at her stupidly.] Where did 
you spring from? 

Revette. If you hadn't been so busy looking down, 
you might have seen me looking up. I was watching the 
sunset. 

Rafael. The sunset? 

Revette. The sunset. 

Rafael. Where is he? 

Revette. Who? Don Miguel? Oh, he was called 
out of the room on business. 

Rafael. And he left you here alone ? Well, that's the 
first good thing I ever knew him to do. Let me introduce 
myself. I'm called Rafael Roderiguez. 

Revette. I'm delighted to know you, Don Rafael. 

Rafael. And you ? What do they call you ? 

Revette. You may call me Paula. 

Rafael. Paula. That's a good name. [Turning hack 



98 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

to table.] The Senorita will pardon. I left something 
here a few minutes ago and I came back to find it. 

Revette. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing the 
Seiior before. Perhaps you are a stranger in Seville. 

Rafael. No, I'm not exactly a stranger. 

Revette. From your speech you might come from 
Granada. It's a beautiful city, Granada. 

Rafael. Yes. That's where I did come from. And 
you are you a newcomer in Seville? 

Revette. I am making a short stay here only. 

Rafael. That's too bad. The Sefiorita is perhaps the 
new singer at the Cafe Don Alfonso? 

Revette. No. 

Rafael. Then you are the new dancer at the Inn of 
the Black Bull. 

Revette. No, I'm not a dancer. [Tapping him on the 
arm significantly with her fan.] I have a little business 
with the Sefior, that's all. 

Rafael. [With a leer.] Oh, yes, I understand. 
[Aside.] Promiscuous women. I should apologise to the 
Sefiorita for intruding. Perhaps the Senorita will pardon 
if I look for my knife. Perhaps the Senorita has seen 
a silver knife? [As he turns again to the table.] Maybe 
I dropped it on the stairs. [He starts for the door.] 

Revette. Perhaps the Sefior found it and has put it 
away for safe keeping. 

Rafael. I'll go and see. 

Revette. But why in such a hurry? Is a knife so 
valuable? If Don Miguel has it, it is safe. When he 
comes in you can ask him. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 99 

Rafael. If I were the Senor I wouldn't leave the 
Senorita even for a few minutes. 

Revette. You are very gallant, Senor. 

Rafael. Not half so gallant as the Senorita deserves. 

Revette. Let me offer you some wine. The day is 
hot and you must be thirsty. 

Rafael. I must look for my knife. 

Revette. When you've drunk your wine I shall help 
you look for it. [Pouring out brandy and holding out the 
glass.] Cognac is a brave drink for a brave caballero. 

Rafael. [Taking the glass and the compliment with 
a swagger.] I'm the bravest man in Spain. 

Revette. Here's to the bravest man in Spain. 

Rafael. When the Senorita shall know me better, she 
shall know how brave I really am. 

Revette. You are a matador perhaps? 

Rafael. A matador? What's a matador? What's 
brave in killing a few bulls? 

Revette. Well, in Spain what fiercer things are there 
to kill? There are no lions nor tigers in Spain. 

Rafael, There are braver things than killing lions 
and tigers. 

Revette. What? [As Rafael goes back to his 
reverie. ] What ? 

Rafael. What did I do with that knife? I went first 
to the Calle de San Sebastian. Then I went to Granero's 
wineshop. Yes. That's where I missed it. 

[He goes to door.] 

Revette. That's a beautiful scarf you're wearing. 
Red is a brave color. 



100 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Rafael. [Turning back.] Will the Senorita wear it 
in my honor? 

Revette. How kind of you. [As he fumbles with the 
knot.] May I? [As she unties it.] I shall keep this 
always in your memory, long after I'm far away from 
Seville. 

Rafael. Why should the Seiiorita leave Seville yet? 
If the Senorita will stay I'll give her anything she wants. 
I've fallen in love with her and I'm a connoisseur of 
women. 

Revette. I can imagine you set many poor hearts to 
beating. And not only in Granada. 

Rafael. Oh, a few ! 

Revette. I can believe it, Don Rafael? 

Rafael. Call me just Rafael. 

Revette. [Looking up into his face with half shut 
eyes. ] Rafael. 

Rafael. When you call me Rafael, it is like music. 
And I shall call you Paula? 

Revette. From today I shall be Paula only for you. 

Rafael. [Ecstatically.] Paula. Paula. [Jealously.] 
How much do you care for the Senor ? Do you love him ? 

Revette. [Carelessly.] Don Miguel is handsome and 
he is rich. 

Rafael. Handsome? Nat so handsome. As for 
riches — he may be rich but he keeps what he has for 
himself. Anyhow, his wife left him and if he is rich and 
handsome, what would she do that for? 

Revette. It seems difficult to understand, doesn't it. 
But these women are strange animals. Some bite the 



THE WHITE PEACOCK loi 

band that feeds them; some prefer to feed themselves. 
Do you know the Sefiora de Ribera? 

Rafael. No. I've been here only ten weeks, and 
during that time Don Miguel has been absent at Madrid. 
But I shall meet her tonight. 

Revette. Oh ! 

Rafael. Yes. A homecoming has been arranged for 
her. [He laughs drunkenly.] I was on my way there 
with a letter when I found I had lost my knife. 

Revette. I am going to the house of the Senora de 
Ribera later — I know Marietta, one of 'her women. I 
could take the letter for you and save you the trouble 
of going. 

Rafael. A thousand thanks for the Senorita's kind- 
ness, but I couldn't inconvenience her. I must take it 
myself. [He starts again for the door.] 

Revette. But there is no hurry for it, is there? Don't 
go yet. Please don't go yet. [Her voice is very soft. 
There is invitation in her eyes.] 

Rafael. [Coming close to her, as she half sits, half 
reclines, on the arm of the divan.] Do you really want 
me to stay? 

Revette. There's nothing in the world I want so 
much. 

Rafael. [Takes her hand and kisses it. Catching 
sight of the brandy decanter, he ambles toward the table 
and pours a tall wineglass of the raw spirit.] The Sen- 
orita will not leave Sevilla. She will stay and I shall 
show her that I know how to treat her better than Don 
Miguel ever thought of treating her. I'd do anything, 
anything, for the Senorita. 



I02 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Revette. Would you? 

Rafael. Try me and see? 

Revette. In these dull times what is there exciting 
to do ? Now if we were only back in the old days when 
men were really brave, when men went out to fight for 
their women — 

Rafael. You don't have to go back to the old days 
for that, ril kill anyone you say — 

Revette. You're not afraid to kill? 

Rafael. Afraid! [He laughs.] No, I'm not afraid. 

Revette. Oh, you're wonderful. I don't care so much 
for a man's money, or for gifts ; but courage — strength — 

Rafael. [Swelling proudly.] Ah! 

Revette. [Turning away.] Oh, well, it's a good joke 
just the same. 

Rafael. You don't believe me ? 

Revette. [Laughing.] Beheve you? Of course not. 

Rafael. I'll show you whether it's a joke or not. 
[Fumbling in his pockets, he produces a small object 
which he holds out to Revette on the palm of his hand. ] 
Do you know what (that is ? 

Revette. It looks like a bone. 

Rafael. That's w^hat it is, a bone. I took it from the 
first finger joint of the right hand of the first man thait 
I killed. I keep it for luck. I have a lot more relics at 
home. 

Revette. What was the name of the man? 

Rafael. What do you want to know his name for? 

Revette. I don't want to know it particularly. At any 
rate what did you kill him for? 

Rafael. First of all because he had something that 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 103 

I wanted, and secondly because I wanted to kill him. 
It is the most magnificent sensation in life to kill ; to see 
the blood ooze from such a little hole as my knife makes. 
It's great to see the eyeballs start and pop. When I kill 
I'm greater than God. He makes life, but with one little 
blow of my knife I wipe out all his handiwork. I tell 
you I'm the bravest man in Spain. 

Revette. At any rate there's only one man braver. 

Rafael. There's no one braver than me. 

Revette. Oh, then you haven't heard of the bandit, 
the man they call Lightning. There's a brave man for 
you. There was a gypsy at Granada called Maraquita, 
that was his sweetheart, she said — 

Rafael. What did she say? 

Revette. She said he was not only the bravest but 
the cleverest man in the world. 

Rafael. [Swaggering vainly.] Did she say that? 

Revette. That's what she said. Now, if I could only 

meet him — 

Rafael. [Carried away with the intoxication of his 
vanity, he bows low.] Senorita. 

Revette. And to think I should meet you here like 

this. 

Rafael. I told you that I was the bravest man in 
Spain. I am. They call me Lightning because I'm so 
fast no one can catch me. MaraquHa's not the only 
woman in the quarter that's crazy for me. All the women 
are crazy for me. Even the men Hke to touch me for luck. 

Revette. I don't wonder at it. I should like to touch 
you too for luck. May I touch your arm? [Rafael 
holds out his arm with a drunken leer. Revette runs her 



I04 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

fingers from the shoulder to the elbow. Her touch is a 
further goad to his passion.] How strong you must be. 
It is like iron, your arm. 

Rafael. Feel this muscle here. 

Revette. That is like steel. Maraquita said you had 
more killings to your credit than any other bandit in 
Spain. 

Rafael. I have, I have. 

Revette. She told of that dangerous holdup at the 
Palacio Tirralva where you actually left your coat in 
the hands of the police. 

Rafael. [Laughing delightedly.] Did she tell you 
that? What else did she say? 

Revette. Oh, she told a thousand tales beside. 

Rafael. What? 

Revette. Well, she told of the corrida of Corpus 
Christi and how you got out from the bull ring under the 
president's very nose. 

Rafael. I did, I did. What else. 

Revette. She said that twelve years ago, before you 
were as famous as you are now, you had committed your 
cleverest, your most dangerous, murder. 

Rafael. Which was that? Which was that? 

Revette. She said you killed the old premier, old Don 
Caspar de Mendoza y Gonzales. I knew she was wrong 
there. 

Rafael. Why wrong? Why wrong? 

Revette. Well, because I knew that it was Don Cesar 
who killed his father. Besides, I knew that a great bandit 
like Lightning wouldn't be so foolish as to be mixed in a 
political murder. That's too risky. Political murderers 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 105 

always get caught, even the cleverest get caught. But 
that takes courage to kill a premier. He must have been 
a brave man, Don Cesar — 

Rafael. Don Cesar. Bah — If I had my knife I'd 
show you. 

Revette. Show me what? What has your knife to 
do with Don Caspar? Don Caspar was not killed with a 
knife. 

Rafael. No. With a gun. Right through the fore- 
'head. He dropped like a stone. His tongue hung out. 
God, how stupid a great man looks dead, with his tongue 
out ! [Returning to the idea fixed in his mind.] Granero's 
wine shop. That's the place I missed it. 

[Goes to the door.] 

Revette. Tell me about this knife. What kind of a 
knife is it? Is it a relic like the bone? 

Rafael. Yes. It is a relic. It's a little silver knife, 
tt has the crest of the house of Gonzales on the handle. 

Revette. Where did you get it? [Again as to a 
person who will answer while talking in his sleep.] 
Where did you get it? 

Rafael. I took it from his pocket the night of the 
murder. If I find it would you like me to give it to you? 

Revette. Yes. 

Rafael. What would you give me for it? 

Revette. Find the knife and then I'll tell you. 

Rafael. [Taking her hand and trying to drag her to 
the divan.] Come here. 

Revette. Let us find the knife. 

Rafael. Are you trying to play with me ? [Becoming 
very ugly.] Don't try to play with me. [As Revette 



io6 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

makes no movement toward him.] Very well, then I'll go. 

Revette. [ Coming to the divan. ] Now are you satis- 
fied? 

Rafael. [Taking her hand.] Your hand is little and 
soft. You shall see how good I shall be to you. When 
a woman pleases me I give her anything she wants. I 
dress her up so that no other man's girl can hold a candle 
to her. You shall see that Rafael knows how to treat 
women. Take off your mantilla, Sefiorita. I want to see 
your hair. [As Revette obeys.] Beautiful hair. 

Revette. I suppose you've told that to many women. 
[As she speaks she takes a long handled knife from 
Rafael's sash.] I suppose tonight you'll tell it to the 
Seiiora de Ribera? It is tonight she's coming home? 

Rafael. Yes, she's coming home tonight? 

Revette. How do you know she'll come home ? They 
say in the city that she will never go back to the Senor. 
How do you know she's coming home? 

Rafael. [Leaning over her and taking the knife 
quietly from her hand.] You might cut your pretty 
fingers. The knife is sharp. 

Revette. I just wanted to look at it. Tell me, Rafael, 
how do you know the Senora's coming home? 

Rafael. Why should you care whether she comes or 
not? Are you jealous of Don Miguel that you should 
be so anxious? 

Revette. No. I'm neither in love nor jealous. But 
I am a woman and I like to know the gossip of the city. 
Tell me, Rafael— 

Rafael. Well, if you must know I have a letter here 
in my pocket from Don Miguel that will bring her. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 107 

Revette. I don't believe any letter would bring her. 
Let me see it. 

Rafael. I can't. 

Revette. Why not? No one will know. 

Rafael. I can't. 

Revette. Oh, Rafael, please. 

Rafael. I can't and that's all there is to it. It would 
get me into trouble. 

Revette. Then let go my hand. How dare you speak 
of my being your woman when the first thing I ask you 
to do for me you refuse. Do you think I'm one of your 
gypsy girls to be ordered here and ordered there? 

Rafael. Paula ! 

Revette. And don't call me Paula. You that talk 
of being the bravest man in Spain, Lightning. Ha ! Ha ! 
You're a coward, a poor coward. You're even afraid of 
getting into trouble with your master, Don Miguel. Well, 
at any rate Don Miguel is no coward. 

Rafael. Paula ! 

Revette. You that boast of kiUing. You speak big 
words, but you prove nothing. You say you have a knife 
that belonged to Don Caspar. Where is it ? You say you 
have a letter for the Seiiora. What's that? You haven't 
got them. You never had them. You're a coward and 
you're a liar. You'd be afraid of a mouse or of a woman. 
You'd be afraid to tread upon a cockroach. Lightning! 

[She laughs again.] 

Rafael. I tell you I am brave. I've got a box full 
of relics at home. 

Rewette. Yes. At home! But you won't show me 
a letter in your pocket. 



io8 THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Rafael. You're jealous. 

Revette. Don't try to put your jealousy off on me. 
You coward! 

Rafael. [Makes a movement toward his knife in 
hand, but thinking better of it puts it back in his sash.] 
If any man had called me that I'd have killed him. 

[He goes to door.] 

Revette. How stupid you are. Couldn't you see that 
I was only joking? 

Rafael. You mean that you like me better than you 
do him? 

Revette. Let me see that letter and I'll tell you. 

Rafael. Let's go to my quarters. What's the use 
of wasting time here? 

Revette. The letter. Please, Rafael? 

[He takes it from his pocket and gives it to her. 
With his free hand he takes her wrist and is 
drawing her to him as the door opens and 
Miguel enters.] 

Miguel. Take your filthy hands off. 

Rafael. Mind who you call filthy. 

Miguel. So my wife amuses herself with a model in 
the afternoon and a drunken peasant before evening. 
What have you told her, you fool? 

Rafael. Your wife? Your wife! So it's a trap. 
You thought you'd get her here with me and trap me into 
making a blasted fool of myself, didn't you? Well, 
she may as well know something that I forgot to tell her. 
She may as well know that it was you — 

Miguel. Be quiet. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 109 

Rafael. You that hired me to kill Don Caspar de 
Mendoza for a paltry itwenty thousand pesetas. You 
blasted son of a yellow dog — So you thought you'd get 
me that easy. You thougiht you'd send me to the 
garrotte — 

[The siren is heard. It is the signal that Hubert 
has arrived. ] 

Revette. No, Don Miguel is not going to do that. 

Rafael. I'll see that he doesn't. 

Revette. You are going to have a chance for your 
life. You will have six hours to get out of Spain. The 
Seiior is going to write a passport now for Don Cesar de 
Mendoza under the name of Isidor Perez. Tonight he 
will leave Spain himself. 

Miguel. Do you think you can threaten me on the 
ravings of a drunken imbecile. 

Rafael. Let her talk. 

Revette. Miguel, you hear that, don't you? You 
know what it is. It's the siren on Hubert Lang's car. 
He's here and he has the Chief of Police with him. Do 
as I tell you and they shall go back alone. If not it will 
be you, not Cesar de Mendoza, that will go to Madrid 
Gaol. 

Rafael. Do what she tells you. 

Revette. [As the siren blows again."] I suppose I 
ought to give you both up. But thank any gods there be 
I'm not a judge. You've been my husband — 

Rafael. [To Miguel.] Well, you can do as you 
please. As for me, the game's up and I'm off. 

[He turns to the door.] 



no THE WHITE PEACOCK 

Miguel. You filthy coward. 

Rafael. Coward ! I'm going to kill you for that. 

[With the quickness of lightning he pulls a gun. 
Revette with an involuntary movement at- 
tempts to push Miguel out of the way. The 
bullet lodges in the upper part of her right 
shoulder. She falls. Miguel points his gun at 
Rafael. The powder is damp and he misses 
fire. Rafael in his half drunken terror at 
having shot Revette drops his gun. Miguel 
throws himself upon him. Together they strug- 
gle through the open doorway. A groan is 
heard from Miguel. Steps are heard ascending 
the stairs. Rafael re-enters. His knife in his 
hand. It is red with blood. He makes a dive 
for the window as Hubert enters with the Chief 
of Police. He looks back for a second and then 
catching hold of the vines that wreathe the win- 
dow he steps over the sill. The vines break away 
from their supports and with a cry he falls into 
space. The Chief of Police goes to the window 
and looks over the balustrade. Meantime 
Hubert, catching sight of Revette, raises her 
from the floor and puts her upon the divan.] 

Chief of Police. Well, he's cheated the garotte at 
any rate. 

Hubert. Revette ! Revette ! Are you very much hurt ? 

Revette. No, I don't think so. 

Hubert. [Discovering wound.] The shoulder; it's a 
nasty place. I'll go for a doctor. 



THE WHITE PEACOCK 1 1 1 

[As he turns to go Cesar enters. He goes to Revette.] 

Cesar. If I had only come a few minutes earlier. I 
came as soon as I got your message. 

Revette. I'm glad you didn't. 

Cesar. Are you badly .hurt? 

Hubert. I was just going for a doctor. Perhaps 
you'll stay here with her till I get back. 

Cesar. Of course, of course. [Hubert goes out.] 

Chief of Police. I'm going to look over the outside. 
Don't let any one into the room. [He goes out.] 

Cesar. Very well. [To Revette.] That you should 
have suffered this for me! 

Revette. If I shall never be called upon to suffer 
anything worse I shall be a debtor to fate. 

Cesar. Don't try to talk. 

Revette. How strong your hand is. And yet it is soft 
like a woman's. It doesn't seem possible that it is really 
your hand under my head. This afternoon it seemed as 
though that could never be again. Do you remember you 
said : "They say the day of miracles is passed." It would 
seem that the day of miracles never passes. 

[Cesar bends down his head and his lips rest on 
her hair. The young moon comes up behind the 
shadowy cypress trees. A nightingale breaks the 
stillness and the perfume of the orange flowers 
is in the air.] 

the curtain falls 



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